The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age
by TheDarkLordofDoom
Summary: 'Shadow of Doom, Lord of the Night, Darkness crown'd with Iron Might- Arise, dark conqueror, arise and fight! In fires of doom, set Arda alight.' A New Dark Lord, greater and more terrible, has risen to cover all the lands in darkness. The reunited Kingdom, under King Aragorn II Elessar, must wage a deadly war against the tide of the night. Chapter 26: THE DARK LORD UNCLOAKED
1. Prologue- The Silent Watcher

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Greetings. This is, as you might expect, a tale of the Fourth Age. I don't expect many readers, but those that I have- I bid you, please review. **

**I warn you- the plot may be darker than you expect. The Valar have never truly been challenged before...**

* * *

 **Part One: THE SHADOWS GATHER**

 **Prologue- The Silent Watcher**

* * *

The Battle for the Black Gate was in full flow. Aragorn, son of Arathorn was fighting his hardest, Andúril clashing and striking against the poisoned, serrated blades of the countless orcs in front of him. Despite all the valour of the Captains of the West, this was, at its core, a hopeless battle, and he knew it.

He fought not to win, but to survive- Survive long enough to fight on, giving time to Frodo. Time enough to destroy the ring.

It was this one hope, this one little star of hope that lay precariously upon the jagged cliff of uncertainty that sustained him as he cut and counter-cut, overrunning his foes' blades and striking them, doing away with their foul heads when necessary.

He conserved his energy as he fought, attempting to secure kills with minimal effort. He could not afford to feel fatigue- yet there it was, its shadow creeping over his heart…

Nay- Isildur's heir he was, and he was stronger than this.

" **ELENDIL!** " came the cry, and he leapt forward, swinging Andúril in a controlled arc, by some miracle slaying four in one swing. With equal agility, he resumed his guard, stabbed the orc behind him, and retreated ere he was encircled.

Unbeknownst to the heir to the throne, something stirred. The shadows gathered. There was a momentary blackness behind him, unknowable save perhaps by a slight chill in the air. This was no servant of Sauron, and one he would not know until later times… not until the Shadow of Doom would rise to threaten Middle-earth.

Clang. Clang. Ssssss. Clatter. Slice. Kkkkhhhhttt!

Andúril struck precisely against the vicious, dark blades of the orcs, blunting their serrated edges, and in some cases, scything the serrations off completely.

The yet-nameless shadow watched with interest. The future king most certainly fought well- a challenge not to be underestimated. He was there, however, to watch- and to make observations. No actions on his part were required now. He turned, therefore, to the Elven Archer in front of him.

Legolas Thranduilion, despite the tremendous odds against him, was in his element. Lunge after graceful lunge he made, slicing off the heads of orcs countless with his knives, blades not even meeting. A gruff snarl told him that Gimli had smashed his group into a rather bloody pulp. Suddenly, he felt a… chill- a queer prickling on his nape. The darkness was somehow more fearsome, more daunting- with the ring this close, Sauron's power 'must' have grown.

This was precisely why Legolas intended to carry out his plan. The Nazgûl were truly proving to be menaces. They flew in, and carted off the elite troops most discriminately, to be slain from a height- Not anymore.

"Gimli- The fell beast draws near! Quickly- cut a path for me!"

The Dwarf did not even question it, a ghost of a smile emerging on his face, ere shaking the ground with a mighty bellow of **"Barûk Khazâd!"** Taking a great leap, he threw himself into the orcs. Those that did not scatter were but crushed. He began, then, to fight with greater vigour, scattering them further. Legolas took the opportunity, and nimbly climbed atop one of the towers of the teeth. A Nazgûl on his fell beast was flying directly above him.

Gandalf, seemingly perceiving the Elf's mind, sent a shaft of the purest Ainurin light at the beast, blinding it and nullifying the senses of its rider. It was then that Legolas struck.

Six arrows all held firmly straight at the same time, he aimed at the foul creature. After moving haphazardly for a moment, the fell beast began hovering, slowly regaining its sight. It never swooped again.

Legolas' perfect aim resulted in all the arrows smiting the Fell beast's throat, bringing an end to its twisted life. The Nazgûl, with foul sorcery, did attempt to cushion its landing, but Gandalf immediately summoned a bolt of lightning, striking the Ringwraith and destroying its corporeal body, sending its maimed Fëa out of the circles of the world.

Legolas then took out an arrow he had reserved for this occasion in especial, a white arrow given to him by Thranduil, his father ere he set out for Rivendell. It seemed to sing a song of its own, to call to his fingers to release it. He did so, piercing a second Fell Beast's hide, Gandalf summoning forth a shaft of light this time to destroy its Rider's fána.

With six Nazgûl remaining, the Eagles showed themselves, soaring over the bloodied plains. Six immediately swept off to battle the six Wraiths. The last one circled rather haphazardly over Gorgoroth, making sure Sauron did not perceive it slowly flying over to Orodruin.

The Shadow had seen enough, yet had not been seen. He had observed every last particularity of the battle, noticing which part of the Morannon remained shadowed and hidden, and the parts in which battle raged not. He carefully noted the exact time it took for each manoeuvre.

Slowly, the entity glided over to a hidden part of the battlefield, the shadow dissipating. He saw a terrible, emaciated and broken creature purposefully making its way above the mountainside.

The shadows disappeared, and gathered atop Orodruin's interior cliff. A hobbit was standing over the edge, dangling something tiny and gold over a chain, as if to throw it down into the lava below.

The shadow sensed that the creature- Gollum- was getting nearer.

 _"I have come, but I do not choose to do now what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"_ said Frodo Baggins. He then took it upon his finger, and seemingly vanished into thin air. The Shadow observed exactly when he did this. The rest of the speech, including the pleas of the second hobbit, was ignored. It was redundant, and- _unnecessary._

The second hobbit was suddenly smashed on the back of the head with a rock. The Shadow noted exactly where he was struck. Gollum advanced forward, apparently sensing the Hobbit, who frantically scrambled.-

The Shadow could see the hobbit and the former stoor struggling, able to see the former, as he lived completely in the shadow world himself. Yet, an enchantment of concealment, combined with Frodo being preoccupied, prevented the hobbit from seeing the shadow.

Finally, the time taken having been recorded, the shadow saw that Gollum was celebrating wildly, Frodo clutching the remnant of his finger, which had been bitten off. The other hobbit, Sam, was coming to.

In his wild celebrations, Gollum slipped a foot, and fell down, carrying the ring with him. It may be attributed to ill luck, or Gollum's own carelessness, but the Shadow knew this to not be true. This was the thing he had anticipated, and he recognised easily, having been specifically trained to do so, that this was divine intervention. Eru, it seemed, was watching this scene.

That would make things most difficult. The operation would have to be conducted with utmost care, and everything must go like clockwork. There was almost no room for error. He would come back.

He heard a loud screech, telling him that the Eagle was flying directly to Orodruin. He found the other hobbit- Sam- having jumped up to save Frodo from falling in as well, in his delirium after the Ring's loss. He had measured the exact time between the Hobbit's and the Eagle's coming to the volcano.

This was it. Sauron was about to be disembodied. Mordor's defences would collapse, followed by the Dark Tower and then the Land of Shadow itself.

The Silent Watcher decided it to be the best time to leave. He had observed and noted everything to a fault. He could not fail. He would not fail. After all, he was made for this.

The shadow gathered for one last time, and then dissipated. _Disappeared._

"Victory! We have Victory!" issued forth from Aragorn's mouth, the great cry ringing out across all of Mordor.

* * *

Years later, the Shadow would reform in a distant corner of Rhûn. He would have a body soon and he knew it. He must have it. His master had told him he would get one.

He had, as always, done well. That was what he had been created for- to carry out each order perfectly, to a fault.

He would be the ending Doom of Middle-earth, the Darkness to cover the lands. The onslaught of Death- to make way for renewal.

Arda was marred, when it was meant to be perfect. His master now saw only one way to 'restore' it to what it was always meant to be. He had been made to destroy, so that his master could create anew.

He would subjugate this world, so that it would blossom like never before under his master's rule.

His Dark Master had sacrificed a great part of his power to make him- and he was perfect. With nary a flaw. Nothing would stand against him. But now, patience was needed.

It had been communicated to the Shadow that the final breaking of the Fellowship of the Ring would take place at Mithlond, the Grey Havens. The Ringbearer would go to Valinor- and so would he. A risky move, but an essential one.

Lightning struck the barren and desolate land. It was a dominion of Sauron once, noted the Shadow. As of now, he had no interest in it.

Ah, Sauron. _Wise-yet foolish_. He had always possessed Great Power- but had never properly used it. He had made a ring, and promptly lost it. _Such incompetence._

Then again, although he did have great power, it was in a _useless_ domain. Crafting and forging, and the manipulation of fire- pah.

Crafting had its uses, but all the weapons in the world can do but nothing against pure, unleashed destruction. The greatest roaring fires could be outlasted in a war of attrition with adequately ensorcelled frost.

As for his master, though, He had _True_ power. Power in exactly the right domain to carry out his plan. The Shadow himself did not possess great power, but his power was in exactly the correct sphere required.

 _He possessed no Terrible Power (yet), but what Power he possessed was Terrible._ It would make no sense to anybody else, but it made perfect sense to the Shadow and his Master.

'Valar, I bid you- wait. You have never faced true challenge ere this day, not even from Melkor, for you have ever been in the favour of Ilúvatar. The One, however, you shall find currently... occupied… with other creations, and He holds others apart from you in His favour as well. I but ask you to wait, for your doom is upon you. I will strike from the Shadows, retreat where you cannot strike at me, and repeat the cycle until I have destroyed that cursed land of yours, your relationships, your 'children', the Maiar, and those damned Eruhîni you profess to care about- rendering your existence a DREAD HELL NOT WORTH LIVING!' echoed the Shadow. It was not a thought, nay- an _echo._

 _"It will come with time. Time and Patience. Play this… great game… with time in your hand, for time is your ally. Show no emotion, for you have none- I gave you none. Emotions are inhibitors, and ever do they halt even the best laid plans. Your fëa is akin to the coldest frost, and you must strike without mercy- but never hate. Never lash out. Hatred leads to recklessness, and defeat- that was Melkor's chief fallacy. You must be patient, my apprentice. My Dread Terror."_ said the voice of his master, in his mind.

This was the first lesson, the first cornerstone. The Dark One would need to be emotionless- utterly _ruthless_ to enforce his master's command. It appeared that now the entity was echoing too much of his master's thought- a matter easily rectified.

"Yes, my master."

He was Doom. He was darkness. Doomdarkness.

 **Mor. Manar. Mormanar.**

 **Lord Mormanar.**

He was supposed to be devoid of all emotion or feeling- but somehow, he found that he quite liked the sound of it.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY** **(I have been reliably advised to leave one for those unfamiliar with the Silmarillion or the general lore)**

 **Sindarin and Quenya are the two major elvish languages, whereas Khuzdul is the dwarvish script.**

 **Andúril-** **Flame of the West (Aragorn's sword)**

 **"Barûk Khazâd!" (Khuzdul):** **Axes of the Dwarves!**

 **Fëa (Quenya/Sindarin): Soul/Spirit**

 **Fána (Sindarin):** **Body/Corporeal form/Mortal coil**

 **Eru/Ilúvatar-** **'The First', 'Allfather'. The God, the everything in Tolkien's 'legendarium'.**

 **Mor (Quenya):** **Darkness;** **Manar (Quenya):** **Doom**

 **Orodruin (Sindarin):** **Mount Doom**

 **Mithlond (Sindarin):** **The Grey Havens**

 **Morannon-** **Black Gate**

 **Valinor-** **Land of the Valar, the spirits of power. The 'Undying Lands'.**

 **Valar-** **'Powers', 'Spirits of Might'. Tolkien's demiurges, though they are higher than the term allows for. Consider them to be 'gods under the one god'.**

 **Maiar-** **Spirits under the Valar. They are of the same kin, but of lesser power. Gandalf and and Sauron belong to this order, along with Saruman and the other wizards.**

 **Eruhîni:** **Children of Eru (Elves/Men)**

 **Melkor-** **'Morgoth', the mightiest of the Valar, Sauron's master and the first Dark Lord. Currently imprisoned outside the circles of the world for the terror he wreaked.**

* * *

 **And there you have it- I spent an entire year tinkering with this 'Shadow', trying to make him as terrifying a figure as possible without making him a sadistic kurvanog (That would be Black Speech, and therefore censored). Finally, he is perfect.**

 **His Master, the new 'Dark Lord', as he could be called, is** **NOT AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER.** **He is one of Professor Tolkien's many creations. I do enjoy fan theories, hence feel free to bombard the review box with them. I might even tell you how close you are...**


	2. Chapter 1- A Journey's End

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **Chapter 1- A Journey's End**

* * *

The Fourth Age dawned bright and clear upon Middle-earth, under the banner of Aragorn II Elessar, known by the world as Envinyatar, the renewer. The power of evil purged from the lands, and the threat of Sauron ended once and for all- it was finally time for the civilisation of man to flourish.

The Elves had all but left the shores of Ennor, in their ships white and swift as swans. They had heeded the call of the seagulls, and finally sailed off among the gentle caress of the waves of Ulmo's domain, as Valinor was waiting.

Ah, Valinor. The land of peace and plenty, and eternal prosperity. It sat waiting for the Elves, who were exhausted, and weary of Middle-Earth. Nestled among the Pelóri, the land of the Valar seemed to spread its gold-washed arms out invitingly for those who, by rights, should have known it as their home throughout.

They would go to the Gardens of Lórien, where they would be healed in mind and in spirit, all their regrets and worries washed away. They could then look forward to a life of eternal bliss, of lasting perfection- all under the rule of their beloved Valar.

This was salvation. This was beauty incarnate. Now, they would have not a care in the world. Life would be perfect- so thought Círdan the Shipwright.

Unbeknownst to him, all was _not_ well in Valinor.

The ship in the likeness of a swan entered into one of the many natural harbours in the Mouth of Avallónë- the greatest city of the elves. Further ahead, inland, was Valmar- the greatest place of inhabitancy they could hope for in all of Arda.

The thousand-odd year old elves all fell silent. 'Oohs' and 'Aahs' escaped their mouths as if they were but little elflings- restored to their childhood- for there was no greater sight their eyes would ever- or could ever- see.

The sunlit harbour of Avallónë was glorious magnificence incarnate. Through the arms of the mountains, which were white as marble, the narrow gap stretched forth into an immense lagoon. It was currently a very busy spot- for droves of vessels were being unloaded and then stayed as they released forth their anchors.

In front of them stretched the great mountain of Taniquetil, the crown-shaped mountain towering over the land like a benign yet just sovereign. They could just make out the glint of Manwë and Varda's abode, Ilmarin- it twinkled as a star in broad daylight.

Behind them, with its green hills, rolling pastures and perfectly conical expanse, was Tol Eressëa. A single estate on the shore was visible to a few- especially to two known as 'Maura' and 'Mithrandir' among the elves. They were to stay there- as that was Gandalf's own estate, given graciously by his beloved teacher- and friend- Nienna.

As the rest of the ship was gazing collectively at the beauty of Valinor- some screams and soft plops followed by laughter indicating that some of the overwhelmed elves had fallen off, forgetting the railing, and started to swim to the shore themselves- Gandalf the White and Frodo the Ringbearer- the two chief vanquishers of Sauron, looked longingly at the comparatively little island behind them.

They were to stay there- but had decided, for their friends' sake, that they would get off on Avallónë first, go along with them to the gardens of Lórien, and be healed in mind and spirit, and then see each of the other fellowship members to their respective abodes.

"You know, Gandalf- I think I can finally rest in peace." said Frodo.

"Oh, no! Say not those words- not here in the undying lands. Your troubles are far behind you, my dear hobbit." said Gandalf, with a smile.

"I do believe I could improve my vocabulary- to think that I travelled all over Middle-Earth, learning of a myriad of languages, only to lose my skill in Westron!" laughed the former ringbearer. "Rest in peace, indeed!"

"I daresay you'll manage to live, Frodo. In fact, even you would be hard-pressed to find a way to land yourself in mortal peril in this glorious land of the Valar. However, one must be careful- especially one with death-seeking talents such as yours."

"Oh, come off it! Well, you're probably right… as usual…" replied Frodo.

"Frodo, my lad! You wouldn't mind seeing the glorious sights in front, would you? This is the best treat a hobbit could get! Would you mind looking at it for me- my eyes are quite glazed over by sheer awe."

Frodo laughed at Bilbo's 'jest', which was, in fact, quite true. The view was too much for that Old Hobbit. Eagles were now flying over the boat, and Frodo, straining his eyes, found the impossibly-clear sky getting slightly clouded where they passed. In fact, he thought he could see little sparks of lightning flickering across their wings as they flew…

"The Eagles! The Eagles are coming! Look, Uncle Bilbo!"

"Oh my dear Eru, the Eagles of Manwë! Glorious creatures! You know, Frodo, these are the ancestors of the Eagles we met over in Middle-earth! Exactly the same- yet different- serve the Elder King himself- notable differences in power- different flight patterns…"

Bilbo managed to lose himself in a history lesson about the Eagles of Manwë, with Gandalf often interrupting him to correct facts and speak of parts the Hobbit knew not. All the while, Frodo watched the eagles fly by, their glorious wings spreading. One seemed to catch his eye. Then, at once, the three immediately turned course and flew directly towards Ilmarin upon Taniquetil. Frodo had a strange suspicion that they were reporting news to the Elder King himself- news concerning him and the fellowship…

"-Thorondor remains their lord although Eönwë often wears the guise of one himself-"

"Yes, that's quite enough, Bilbo. Frodo's head might burst with information if you continue on at this rate. Now, waddle along to Círdan, will you- he has quite a talent for explaining the landscape of any place…"

"Oh. Right. Waddle- my foot! Oh, I'm a sturdy old Hobbit, all right! I don't waddle on my proud foots…"

"Proud feet!" called Frodo after him. The young Hobbit had not manage to gauge the full meaning of Gandalf's words- but Bilbo recognised the Istar's words as an order of dismissal. Frodo looked over at the passengers once, and turned to Gandalf, whose expression had changed from cheerful to grave in an instant.

"Frodo."

* * *

"Yes, Gandalf?"

"You were the ringbearer."

"Yes, I was… although I had a whole fellowship around me…"

"You were the chief instrument of the destruction of Sauron."

"Yes- but that was not me! Sam helped- if not for him I couldn't have- then you- Aragorn- Legolas- Gimli- even Boromir and Sméagol, of all people- all of you helped me! I couldn't…"

"Frodo. Listen. Do not demean your achievement. You ended Sauron. You brought the Fourth Age upon Middle-earth. You are, indeed… the saviour of all. Do not think I didn't expect it- you have been summoned to give a full account of all your adventures before the Doomsman of the Valar himself."

Dumbstruck would be an understatement for what Frodo felt. He had only heard tales of Mandos, the master of doom. None of them were benign. All of them were frightening to boot. The mere mention of the Doomsman was enough to knock the wind out of him and leave him cowering on the floor.

"B-but- Gandalf, why me? Why him?"

"Oh, don't be a fool, hobbit. You were the one who destroyed the ring. It is only fitting you should be the one delivering the tale. As for why to Him…"

Gandalf's face adopted a grave expression, but one of deepest respect and utmost devotion. Among all the Valar, Lord Mandos had always been the one who had inspired the most awe and sheer admiration in the Maia.

"Lord Mandos is the master of Doom and Fate. He knew you were going to destroy the ring. He had foreseen it. He knew exactly what would come of this war, and he knew your fate, Frodo, as well as Sauron's. It was he who sent me back after my resurrection at _Atar's_ hands. You must go to him, for he requires an account from a direct onlooker's perspective. Then, and only then, will he enter it into his great book of the fates: of the Dooms that have been, are being carried out, and even some that have not yet come to pass. You must do this, Frodo."

The Hobbit suddenly felt dwarfed, more than he already was. So Mandos had known! He had known everything! What was the point of all his fear, suffering, courage and bravery, if this was, in the end, inevitable? What sense of achievement he had in completing his quest was almost immediately drowned. He realised then that he was but an ant, a pawn, an expendable piece, in the grand design of fate.

He looked at Gandalf. So the wizard had always known! All the stratagems and counsels- all the ingenious battle tactics- no doubt Lord Mandos had told him exactly what to do! He looked now at the wizard, with sudden, inexplicable dislike.

"Gandalf- you knew? You knew that this would happen? My word, did you use me? Was I but a pawn in this… game… of the fates?!"

 **"Frodo Baggins! Take me not for an all-knowing clairvoyant!** Never, at no point in the quest, did I knowingly use you!"

A shadow came over the ship as he uttered this. Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, and all the others turned their heads to face them. Thinking it would be best to continue their conversation later, the two hushed.

"My dear Frodo- we asked too much of you. We ruined the meaning- the simple, beautiful meaning of your existence. Please- I did not know anything about the future. I was going along as blindly as any of you. All I knew was some characteristics of Sauron's nature- he was of my order, as you see…" A tear came to Gandalf's cheek as he whispered this.

"Frodo- I wish I could see into the future- if only that would have made your quest safer, and your burden easier to bear. But alas- I could not. I came to appreciate the grand scheme of things- only now that I am returning home." Gandalf's mouth twitched into a fond smile, and another soft, elusive tear made its way down his cheek.

"Please, my dear hobbit- can you ever forgive this old man for his failures?"

Frodo was completely touched. His anger having quite vanished away, he said- "There is nothing to be sorry for, Gandalf."

"Spoken like a true friend and hobbit!" said the wizard, stooping down to hug Frodo in a tight embrace.

* * *

The sun-washed land came to light, and a soft, soundless bump, that could be felt as if it was a gentle caress, told the occupants of the ship that they had, finally, made landfall.

"My friends, my brothers, my kin- we are here." said Círdan, and ceremoniously threw the board down, allowing the passengers to alight, himself at the head.

The Elves immediately rushed out, in a manner decidedly unlike their people. It could be called a stampede. As soon as an elf hopped lightly off the ramp, or directly off the ship, he/she was greeted by the arm of an awaiting family member before reaching the ground. It was a truly touching scene, laughter and sobs equally prominent, but none could argue that they were all glad to be back.

It was finally time for the 'important' passengers to descend, once the stampede had somewhat lessened. The first out was, as usual, Glorfindel, the Noble Elf-Lord and Balrog-Slayer. Unfortunately for the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, he had no direct family left, as they had all perished in Gondolin, or before.

However, he still had a great share of attention, with dozens of elves, among both the Noldor, his kin, and the Vanyar- whose appearance he greatly resembled. Flourishing his sword about, he'd tell them tales of his exploits- A familiar tale involving Frodo and the Nazgûl soon found its way out his lips.

Vanyarin elf-maidens cooed at Glorfindel- he obviously possessed an extremely attractive person. It would be considered rude by some of the sheltered elves- it could even be called ogling- but Glorfindel did not seem to mind at all. The maidens of the Noldor looked on with jealousy, some feeling extremely possessive of their kinsman. Glorfindel, detaching himself from his friends, made his way to the maidens, and eventually the whole throng of eligible ladies went off, forming a cocoon around Glorfindel, discussing topics that would perhaps never come to light.

This was the signal for the others. The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn, taking the initiative, began walking down hand in hand. However, as soon as Galadriel had reached the land, a blur attacked her with the force of a lightning bolt. She was tackled down, Celeborn not even realising he had relinquished her hand, said blur landing atop her.

The Blur was, in fact, revealed to be an elf. He had dark hair, and in his eyes burned a fire of old. Though he looked young, it was clear to the wise that he truly was ancient. He had seen the entirety of the First Age, and the times before that. The distinct clatter of circlets could be heard, as both Galadriel's and a much richer, greater one were knocked off, and both fell, with a soft plop, into the sea. This other circlet must belong to Galadriel's assailant, then.

Sighing, Gandalf raised Narya to the air, summoning Galadriel's circlet out of the water, as Elrond raised Vilya and did the same with the other. The rings, despite their power being broken, still retained some utility. Elrond, however, let the circlet hover in the air for a while as he examined it- _Oh_. It was the Ancient crown of the High King of the Noldor. The 'assailant', it could be surmised, was Finarfin, the High King. Galadriel's Adar. Elrond made to bow, but seeing as the King only had eyes for his daughter, it was quite redundant.

"GALADRIEL! MY DEAR LITTLE BABY, HOW GOOD IT IS TO SEE YOU!" cried Finarfin, audibly enough for all to hear. A muffled noise appeared from where he was smothering the Elf-Queen. Celeborn looked quite speechless, and decided to do or say nothing.

"Oh, my daughter! You finally came back to Adar! How dare you ran off in the first place- ah, you naughty girl, you…"

Galadriel was considering screaming for help. A figure, with hair as silver as moonlight, was making its way towards the two.

"Naneth, save me!" cried Galadriel in desperation to her mother, Eärwen, who had only just reached there.

"Oh, you naughty, naughty Girl! Bad Galadriel! Now, don't you ever go off running away from Adar ever again! Aha! You're grounded, so there- for the next two thousand years, I think- yes, that would be enough… My dear, we were so worried about you!"

Frodo could not hide his laughter. Elrond, despite his powers of Iron Control, struggled greatly to contain his mirth, an amused expression lining his face. Ah, his mother-in-law, who had scared him so much, especially concerning Celebrían- seeing her mauled so- that was quite a spectacle. Gandalf, on the other hand, was laughing uproariously. He had always been rather fond of Galadriel- it seemed her father was overly so.

"Give her some air, for goodness' sake!" laughed Eärwen. Finarfin stopped smothering his daughter with hugs and then lifted her up neatly into his arms. Celeborn tried his hardest to restrain his sudden impulse of jealousy- that position was associated mainly with husbands and wives. Galadriel, meanwhile, said through clenched teeth, "I am perfectly capable of walking, Adar- Nowletmebe!"

Finarfin merely held onto her tighter.

It was time, now, for Lord Elrond to descend. Something captured the Peredhel's attention- it was a white dove, more beautiful than any to fly the skies, making its way directly towards him. A tremendously beautiful Elf, possessing Arwen's features of white pearl but Galadriel's piercing eye and golden hair, was running slightly behind the dove.

Elrond gave up all pretence of dignified respectability and ran towards the two figures. Just then, the dove landed lightly on the ground- and behold! Where previously there was a dove, now there was an Elf-maiden of great beauty. The other, equally beautiful elf-maiden caught up to her, panting slightly.

"You might as well give up, Celebrían. I always win these little contests of ours." laughed the one who had been the dove a moment ago.

"Naneth! Meleth-nin!" cried Elrond, and fell upon them, embracing both in a tight hug. Something tremendously odd happened at that moment- despite it being broad daylight, the light of a star shone directly above them. For a moment, a clear, bright spot could be made out in the sky, before it vanished. "I love you too, Adar" breathed Elrond, an unsolicited tear coming to his eye.

Elwing, who had been blessed by the Valar to be able to take flight as a dove, embraced her son, as her fëa embraced his. Their minds spoke to each other, and Elwing communicated to Elrond what could not be expressed in words- her overwhelming love for him and how much she had missed him. Elrond knew that Eärendil was also listening.

"Well, I better be getting off, then" said Elwing, looking at Elrond and Celebrían, "I'm sure you two lovebirds will take a long time to get back home. I'm sure you two have much to discuss after your separation…" And with that, Elwing ran forward, called upon the winds of Manwë, and jumped off the ground. The white dove flew off towards the Mindon Eldalieva.

"Where are Elladan and Elrohir?" asked Celebrían, suddenly serious.

"They have stayed back at Middle-Earth. They wish to set all their affairs in order, and also see out the first few years of the reign of King Elessar." said Elrond. Celebrían frowned, and looked at her husband darkly. Elrond felt uncomfortable, and decided to come out with the truth.

"I'm sorry, Melamin. The Truth is- I hate to break your heart, but Elladan and Elrohir may never come back."

Celebrían looked at him coldly, all of a sudden.

"I could do nothing! Their love of the land is too great. I tried to persuade them, but they would not come. We can only hope, that in due course, they will."

Celebrían's expression softened. However, when she looked up at her husband again, she looked oddly despondent.

"And what of Arwen?" she asked.

"She- she…"

"Married Estel. Or, as I should refer to him, King Elessar."

"Who told you…"

"Lady Varda herself told me."

Elrond looked shocked that a Valië would be taking interest in his third son. His little son. His adopted boy.

"I- uh- I… Celebrían, he is my son. I adopted him. I raised him. No matter what I told Arwen, she was bent on marrying him. They were meant for each other- just like you and me."

Celebrían, for a while, looked even sadder.

"She will die, then…"

"Yes. She will."

The two of them stood silent, taking acknowledgement with this inevitability. Finally, the sadness receded, and Celebrían looked up.

"Elessar- your son- YOU NEVER TOLD ME ANYTHING ABOUT HIM!" Elrond raised his arms in protest, but his wife cut him off.

"HOW DARE YOU? AND ME, YOUR WIFE! YOU, MY 'LORD', ARE COMING HOME RIGHT NOW! DO NOT EXPECT ANY REST UNTIL YOU HAVE TOLD ME THE WHOLE STORY!" she said with mock-sternness.

"But, Melamin, you were here and I in Imladris- how was I supposed to…"

"Palantír, of course! You could have taken the first from Sauron, assailed his city or whatnot…"

"But, Melamin, I am sure Sauron wouldn't take kindly to…"

"Oh, the last time I saw you, 'Lord' Elrond, you loved me more than to let a petty little Dark Lord get in the way of your love! What of the second, then? I am sure Curumo would…"

"He betrayed us." said Elrond gravely. Celebrían looked shocked for a moment. A moment.

"Tell me more!"

And with that, Elrond departed with Celebrían, narrating the tale of the War of the Ring. Galadriel was pleased that Celebrían wouldn't have to see her mother being made a fool of even further. Finarfin, forgetting the fact that this was highly inappropriate, considering he was the High King of the Noldor, kept fussing over her.

Finally, Gandalf and Frodo disembarked. Seeing Celeborn and Finarfin engaged in a sort of Tug-of-war for Galadriel, they passed the two, and went on.

Galadriel had finally gotten herself free of the two, and, muttering something Darkly under her breath, something which seemed to amuse Eärwen a little too much, started walking with her mother towards the Gardens of Vána, for Galadriel dearly wished to see her old mentor, Melian, again. An eagle flew elegantly towards them, and without touching the ground, picked them both up, before fluying off once more.

This left Finarfin and Celeborn together. Finarfin, surprised at Celeborn's great strength, was declaring aloud that he should have been of the Noldor, not the Sindar, eliciting icy replies from the latter. Finarfin then rounded upon Celeborn, and hurried him away. Gandalf knew that the Elf-Lord would be subjected to thorough scrutiny and cross-examination, since Finarfin needed to convince himself whether he really was a worthy husband for his beloved daughter.

Sighing fondly, Gandalf stretched forth a hand, and released a loud, shrieking cry. An answering cry greeted him, and a majestic eagle swept down, landing gracefully.

"Go on, Frodo" said the former Istar, at which point the hobbit clambered on. Gandalf ascended after him.

The Eagle gave another majestic cry, before it shot off into the air.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Celebrían is Elrond's wife and Galadriel's daughter, Eärwen is Galadriel's mother and Finarfin is the 'third' among the sons of Finwë, the original High King of the Noldor Elves. Finarfin, owing to the deaths of his brothers Fëanor and Fingolfin (both absolutely glorious characters), now rules as High King and has done so for more than six thousand years.**

 **Elwing, wife of Eärendil, is Elrond's mother.**

 **Aragorn II Elessar:** **Aragorn's full title**

' **Maura'-** **The true name of Frodo. For the sake of information, Pippin is 'Razanûr Tûk'.**

 **Envinyatar (Quenya):** **The renewer**

 **Ennor:** **Middle-earth**

 **Avallónë:** **Starlit Harbour- Chief dwelling of the Elves in Valinor**

 **Pelóri-** **The tallest mountains of Arda, Tolkien's world. They ensconce Valinor and act as superficial protection.**

 **Lórien-** **(Not to be confused with Lothlórien) Dwelling of Irmo, Vala of visions and dreams, and his wife Estë, Valië of healing. It is itself a place of rest and healing.**

 **Valië:** **'Queens of the Valar'- a female Vala.**

 **Meleth-nín/Melamin:** **My love**

 **Vána-** **Valië of the eternal and perennial, the spring, beauty and, well… flowers.**

 **Taniquetil-** **Grandest of the Pelóri, highest of Arda's mountains on which rests Ilmarin.**

 **Ilmarin-** **Palace atop the world in which abide Manwë and Varda.**

 **Manwë-** **'The Elder King'. Vala of the winds, and greatest in authority among them. Rules as vice-gerant of Eru in Arda. Melkor's brother. In brief; High King of everything.**

 **Varda-** **Wife of Manwë. Valië of Light and the stars. Greatest of the Valiër.**

 **Istar-** **Wizard**

 **Curumo-** **Saruman. 'Man of Skill'.**

 **Vanyar-** **'High' elves. Mightiest in songs of power and magic. Manwë's favourite elves. They were so enamoured of the beauty of Valinor that they did not leave it for Middle-earth (in my opinion, these are clear signs of wimpy sods).**

 **Narya-** **Elven ring of power- the ring of fire. Originally in the possession of Círdan, it was passed on to Gandalf.**

 **Vilya-** **Elven ring of power- the ring of airs. The mightiest of the elven rings; originally in Gil-galad's possession, now wielded by Elrond.**

 **Tol Eressëa:** **An island that floats just offshore of Valinor. It was placed there by Ulmo, and its purpse is a very long story in the Silmarillion. Gandalf lives there.**

 **Nienna-** **Valië of mercy and pity. Cries all the time for reasons we mortals do not comprehend.**

 **Thorondor-** **Lord of the eagles in the first age.**

 **Eönwë-** **Lord of the maiar and herald of Manwë. Greatest in strength of arms on Arda.**

 **Námo/Mandos:** **'Judge'- The Doomsman among the Valar. He sees the past, the present and the future, and all its events. He can will 'dooms' into being, that serve to alter the future. My favourite Silmarillion character and, in an odd way, the crux of this tale. He is often the victim of an unfair perception due to his role in the doom of Fëanor.**

 **Adar is Sindarin for 'father' whereas Naneth is Sindarin for 'mother'. Here, 'Atar' is 'Ilúvatar' in short- it is commonly accepted that the maiar address their father, Eru, by 'Atar', which simply means 'father'.**


	3. The Halls of Mandos

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **A/N: Although Celeborn did not leave for Valinor along with Galadriel, in accordance what Professor Tolkien wrote, I have opted to have him sail for this is slightly AU. I sent him along because it has quite a lot to do with the situation of Thranduil, who will be joining this story shortly.**

 **On with the second chapter, then...**

 **Chapter 2: The Halls of Mandos**

* * *

Frodo felt the rush of the wind against his frame, the whistle of the air against his ears. He looked down. The view was quite overwhelming- it was the most beautiful thing the hobbit had ever seen. The hobbit gently grasped Gandalf's back, the wizard smiling.

Flying was truly wonderful, was it not? There was perhaps no better sensation in the world- Bilbo was right. Frodo felt his dark memories leaving his mind. He was finally being cured of _its_ influence. Below him was perhaps the most beautiful sight in Arda. Above him was the vast, infinite expanse of the skies. He felt, for the first time, completely, truly, liberated.

The eagle reduced its pace, and tarried a little. From below it, three other eagles emerged. These ones were greater in size, and scattered more air by the blast of their wings. Frodo noticed something quite odd- the feathers of the Eagles were not ruffled in the least. Moreover, each single feather seemed to be pulsating with little sparks of lightning.

Their eagle allowed the greater ones to overtake it, flying in formation. Finally, another eagle swooped in. This one was greater in stature than the others, but not nearly as many feathers showed electrical properties. Some feathers were even ruffled. This last one fell back behind them, the eagles forming a ring.

"Thorondor!" said Gandalf fondly, recognising the eagle. Thorondor gave a cry of appreciation. He had been an Eagle of Manwë for only two ages, after returning from Middle-Earth. Although he was by rights the lord of the eagles, he had had trouble adjusting to the new measure of power he had received. He thus venerated the other eagles of Manwë, who had always been at their master's side.

Thorondor and their eagle then began to descend, as they had neared their destination. The other three eagles suddenly swooped high up, and flew towards Taniquetil. As if on cue, spectacular flashes of sheet lightning stormed out, in an imitation of the exact flight path of the eagles. The next moment, the Eagles were out of sight.

Frodo now saw that they were clearly descending. He had lost track of time, but he was quite sure that he and Gandalf had flown for hours. They came now to the north-western extreme of Valinor.

The hobbit looked down at the structure below him. It rose to only one storey, it seemed, and was outwardly unassuming. It was completely smooth, and bereft of decoration- it gave nothing away.

The Halls of Mandos.

Thorondor and the other Eagle landed with utmost grace. Gandalf got down, beckoning for Frodo to do the same. The hobbit had just gotten down when he witnessed Gandalf in animated conversation with the eagle he had addressed as 'Thorondor'.

Only now did the Quenta Silmarillion come to his mind. He had read the historical document in the libraries of Imladris. He recalled that Thorondor was the Lord of the Eagles, and that he had done deeds even the mightiest heroes could not boast of.

This was the Eagle who had saved the bodies of Three Elven heroes from the taint of Morgoth, and one from Morgoth himself. The one who had managed to gouge rifts and scars in the Dark Lord's own face, and had gotten away with it. The one who had saved countless lives. The hobbit bowed low in sheer awe and admiration.

Thorondor, politely puzzled, gratified the hobbit with a short bow of his own. Frodo stood straight again, and said in Sindarin, "Greetings, Lord Thorondor, Greatest of the Eagles, hero of the first age, saviour of countless souls."

Frodo was extremely thankful that Lord Celeborn had seen fit to instruct him in Sindarin during their voyage. Thus was he able to provide a proper greeting. Thorondor surprised him by using the same terms.

"Well met, Lord Frodo, bearer of the Ring, vanquisher of Sauron, and saviour of all of Middle-Earth."

Frodo looked down on his toes, quite overcome by a fit of bashfulness. Gandalf merely chuckled.

"Ah, Frodo- I see you have already introduced yourself to lord Thorondor. All is well in Valinor, I suppose?" he asked.

"Life in Aman goes on much as it has these past ages. Under the great rule of the Valar, and the will of Eru, Maiar and Eruhini alike prosper. It has been perfect- much too perfect."

"Why must you say that?

"Olórin…" said Thorondor, now speaking in Valarin, "The kings and queens of the Valar are troubled. They worry about Lord Mandos. He is rarely seen nowadays, always remaining in the halls. He seldom walks in a hröa- such is the Lord Doomsman's way. In fact, he has not been seen, not even by Vairë, for quite some time."

"When was…"

"He last seen? He was last witnessed at the Ring of Doom, pronouncing the fate of… Mairon."

Gandalf looked extremely shocked.

"Mairon? The void?"

"Precisely. That was the verdict. Much trouble would be stirred among the Noldor and the Teleri if he was given a second chance. The Vanyar would be inevitably involved. Besides, Eönwë had already given him that chance- it was for the best, Olorín."

"But ever have the Valar shown mercy…"

"Olorín, being a disciple of Lady Nienna, I am not surprised you would allow him such a chance- even after what happened. Your lady was one of those opposed to the verdict. So was Lord Aulë. He was desirous of handing his prize pupil a chance to stay in his own halls. Tulkas, Oromë, Ulmo- it was never a question for them. The void, they chanted. I heard tell it was Oromë himself who threw the battered and beaten Dark Lord in."

"Goodness gracious. What of the Elder king? What judgment did he pass?"

"My lord Manwë- sat silent. So did Lady Varda. I can tell that Lady Varda wanted desperately to crush the one who caused such darkness to cover her stars- but she would not pronounce anything, for she is too kind-hearted, and would never oppose Lord Manwë should he come to a different judgment."

"Was not Lord Mandos asked to pronounce his doom?"

"That is the part I must tell you about, Olorín. Lord Manwë uttered not a word, so deep in his thoughts was he. Lord Mandos spoke his doom ere the Elder King said a word. He proclaimed that Mairon be damned of his own judgment. And his Dark Powers of Sorcery were also stripped from him, but what the Doomsman did henceforth with them was unknown. Sau- Mairon- was taken to the void on sole proclamation by the Doomsman."

Gandalf, in all his career, had perhaps been never shocked as much. Mandos, speaking a doom, when not asked to do so? He had been bound thus, by Ilúvatar himself!

"What you have said troubles me, Thorondor. Never has the Doomsman acted thus. I must bid farewell to you now, O Lord of Eagles. May the wind always carry your wings across lands distant and waters deep!"

Thorondor, recognising the dismissal, shot off immediately. The former Istar surely had something important to do.

Frodo, who had so far been left out of the conversation, continued to gaze wonderingly at the Halls of Mandos. Great and Austere were they, stretching out yonder for miles. They bore no decoration, and the outer walls were impeccably smooth.

The Halls seemed to be made of metal, yet this was not true. After closer observation, an expert could say that they were, in fact, fashioned out of smooth, dark stone, without any irregularity in colour or shape.

Nobody, however, knew that the Halls were living. They were an aspect of the Doomsman's thought, and thus woven out of the fabric of Mandos' own song. The Doomsman rarely utilised the magic of music, but when he did, it surely was impressive. The halls lived as Mandos lived, and when inside them, Mandos himself could see, with a moment's concentration, each and every part of their labyrinthine interiors, all at once.

The only distinguishing mark the halls bore were two statues at the front, showing a woman of beauty beyond words, and a Tall, dark, imposing figure, awe-inspiring in every sense of the word. Mandos and Vairë.

Frodo, quite done with his 'inspection', turned around to face Gandalf again, once Thorondor had flown off. The eagle who had shown the graceful kindness to carry them had taken off long before. The wizard was now exhibiting a pained smile on his lined face.

"Frodo." said Gandalf. "Now it is time for our parting, until we meet again at Eressëa. Show no fear, but the same quiet courage that helped you win such a great victory. Lord Mandos, the Doomsman, though he may be imposing, means well. He is as kind and gracious as any other Vala, perhaps more so than some. He will receive you, however, alone. That is his sole condition."

"I'm scared, Gandalf."

"So are all who come to see these halls. However, I pray you, please do not repress your speech. Answer his questions, my dear hobbit, and it will all be over with."

"Where are you going, Gandalf? What task beckons you?"

Gandalf laughed, attempting his old, rich laugh, but somehow, there was a tone of… malaise in his laughter.

"Ah, you are far too inquisitive for your own good, my dear Frodo! Tell me, just where did you get this most excellent talent for uncannily accurate deductions? Ahhhh- Hobbits."

Frodo laughed as well, but he too sounded uneasy. Gandalf spoke again, much more gravely.

"I must go to see the Lady Nienna- kindest of the Valiër and my mistress. There are some- ahem- matters I must attend to. I have questions- questions that need answering."

Frodo did not pause to recollect that the wizard had used the same phrase before his great adventure. He did not, for a second, suspect that this might mark the beginning of another one.

"Frodo- I want you to know this. I have told you that I am a Maia, and therefore of the same order as Sauron, whom I helped vanquish. In days past…"

A few tears fell down Gandalf's face.

"In days ancient, he used to be known as Mairon- the Admirable. And he truly was admirable. If I am the wisest among the Maiar- he was likely the most brilliant. Aulë never had a Maia quite as keen, intuitive and creative as he. He would laugh and make merry like all the others- just a tad less, so engrossed was he in his work." Gandalf sighed heavily.

"He was a friend of mine. A good friend. I knew him well- often, I joined him in the forges, to gape at his mastery of his craft. Never, not even at his last day in Almaren, did he look- or seem- different. None of us ever suspected his treachery, and none knew that his new master was Morgoth. However- owing to instinct- I had always remained… wary of him."

Frodo listened to all his, speechless. Gandalf and Sauron were like kin. They were not as vastly different as he thought. This changed things.

"Certain events occurred at his trial, events out of the ordinary. It is about this that I must enquire."

Gandalf then paused, drawing his hands to his chest and clasping them somewhat… nervously. In all his years, Frodo had never seen Gandalf look so very unsure of himself and then came the revelation.

"Frodo- I was, in my time here, known as Olórin. That is what I will be known as from now. It breaks my old heart to say this- but I am your old friend Gandalf no longer. I am Olórin, wisest of the maiar."

Frodo, still speechless, seemed torn between two feelings: joy for Gandalf, since he had resumed once again his old mantle, and sorrow, at seeing that the Gandalf he loved was henceforth a different person, not his old friend.

To demonstrate his new identity, Gandalf stepped back. Frodo was suddenly buffeted forwards and backwards, there was such a great rush of power emanating from Gandalf that he was blown off his feet. The wizard had never seemed this powerful before.

Golden light forming a spiral around him, the winds converging upon his position, Gandalf, in a commanding voice, uttered the following words in the most Ancient Valarin.

* * *

"The black hold of Evil is broken,  
The war of the ring is won.

The Dark Lord of Mordor is vanquished,  
The fourth age of Middle-earth is begun.

My greatest mission I have completed,  
The task for which I was chosen is done.

Let the restraints upon my power divine  
Henceforth be undone."

* * *

The words, infused with power, seemed to ring out across the Undying Lands. Gandalf rose up into the air, and was hit by beams of the purest white light. These were the words of power required to release Gandalf's full power, the greater part of which he had willingly given up, so as not to mar Arda further in his quest against Sauron.

Slowly, Gandalf began to descend to the hallowed ground of Valinor, Frodo still quite blinded by the light emanating from him. Finally, the light dimmed, and the hobbit looked at his now completely-unrecognisable friend.

The wrinkles on Gandalf's face had completely vanished, and the lines had smoothed out. The great waist-length beard had seemingly evaporated- indeed, he lacked even the thinnest moustache. Gandalf now seemed to constantly emit a pearly-white glow around him. Apparently, he had also done away with his cloak.

The new Gandalf- Olórin- seemed almost young. Youthful. This was an idea that had never found its way into Frodo's mind. The idea of a young Gandalf was completely ludicrous. It was like imagining a tyrannical Aragorn or a kind- hearted Balrog. The hobbit had thought Gandalf had merely sprang into existence, venerable, moustached and bearded- it was not very far from the truth.

The only things Gand- Olórin- had retained were his snowy-white hair, his staff, and his white robes. Even now, the former Istar summoned a grey cloak out of thin air to dim his radiance and to cover his white raiment. His face, though no longer lined, still looked worn with care.

The Maia looked more radiant than ever- but also austere. It appeared that he deemed his white robes unfit for the halls he was about to enter. He spoke now, in a deep, careful voice.

"Frodo- I am to be known, always, as Olórin from now on. You may call me Gandalf in conversation, but when you speak of me to another, my name is Olórin. Advance forward now. Lord Mandos' true name is not 'Mandos', for that is merely the name of his abode. His true name is Námo, but it is a secret known to few, and you would do well to avoid speaking it. Worry not about directions, for you will feel the Vala calling out to you. Listen to the call- follow the light- May Ilúvatar always be by your side."

And with that, Gandalf rushed off, hastening towards Nienna's halls. Frodo watched him go for a while, and after he had disappeared out of sight, the hobbit took a deep breath, went through the tall archway, between the statues, and into the Halls of Mandos.

"Farewell, my old friend… Olórin you may call yourself, but forever will you remain Gandalf to me." whispered the hobbit.

* * *

Instantly, he felt something brush against him- not a person, a feeling. A light within him. It was warm and comforting. Everything seemed dim and blurry when he concentrated upon this light, except for the correct way ahead. So the Vala's great fëa was reaching out to his tiny one. Frodo, at once, hastened to follow it.

He passed many highlights along the way, including more statues. He recognised one of the statues to be Fëanor, his teeth gritted in pain, as he was about to be struck down by the flames of the replica of Gothmog in front of him. It seemed that the main purpose of these statues were to depict exactly what terrible doom would betide one if one acted against the will of the mighty Doomsman.

Slowly, the statues faded away along the corridors to be replaced by tapestries- the most beautiful tapestries in the world. Frodo, however, could not spare a moment to admire them- he needed to find the light. Everything else was a blur.

He could have walked for days or hours- perhaps even months. He lost track of time. He did not need to eat or rest- the light was enough motivation to keep him seeking it.

He did not see anything- the Great Hall of the Fëar and Vairë's quarters were both passed by. Finally, he came upon a chamber, which from outside, seemed Dark, Desolate, and Altogether Gloomy. Yet, the light was within He walked in.

The chamber seemed so dark from outside that Frodo was completely blinded when he entered. The brilliant, all-encompassing light was too much for the poor hobbit. Yet, a muttered incantation and the wave of a hand saw the hobbit opening his eyes, which became instantly accustomed to the light.

The Vala standing in front of him- was not Mandos. It could not be. The aspect of Eru's thought about Doom, Inevitability and time- could simply not be so radiant.

As it turned out, the Vala in front of him- for such power rippled around him, that it had to be a Vala- had probably the most handsome, beautiful face in all of Eä. It was wholly unmarred. He was tall, extremely tall, but even now, he was shrinking, by his own choice, from his gigantic stature. It became clear to the hobbit that he did this to allow him some freedom, by coming to his own level. Still, he stood at about twice Frodo's height, at about seven and a half feet tall.

He was smiling. It was the most wonderful thing Frodo had ever seen, that smile. His complexion was completely pure white, more like a dove's than a man's. His hair, seemingly flying around him in waves, was a similar snowy white. His robes were an elegant and majestic blue, rimmed with gold- yet, he wore no other ornament.

Frodo Baggins had judged correctly. This was not Mandos. This was Manwë. The Elder King. This thought, which had so far not come to him, struck him immediately, obviously planted there by the Vala himself.

Manwë glided over to Frodo and took his hand. A strange sensation occurs when a Vala takes your hand- it burns terribly, and feels frosty cold at the same time. Had this particular Vala not been Manwë, who had graciously stemmed the power flowing through his being, the poor hobbit would not have been able to take it. The next moment, however, the burning stopped. Thousands of new possibilities opened themselves to Frodo, and the meaning of life, all of a sudden, seemed to become laughably clear.

Once again, the hobbit was befuddled- The Elder King was young. Utterly youthful, in fact. In a man's age, he could not have been over twenty five. The only thing that indicated otherwise was his cascading hair.

"Greetings, Frodo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, bearer of the Ring, and the saviour of Middle-earth. I believe it was to your knowledge that Lord Námo…" he said the Doomsman's name nonchalantly in front of the Hobbit- "would be the one meeting you. Alas, he is indisposed at the moment, so I am afriad afraid you will need to bear with my own self." said Lord Manwë, with a smile.

Everything about the Greatest Being on Arda completely baffled the poor hobbit. Was it the way Manwë spoke in simple Westron for his benefit? Was it how he had bothered to learn, and mention all of Frodo's titles? Or, was it the fact that he addressed the hobbit as if an equal- and made it appear that it was a sad, sorry thing that he had replaced the much-more intimidating Doomsman as his interrogator?

For a being in the highest position of Arda, Manwë could give a lesson in humility to the lowest peasant of Rohan. Frodo thought it would be rude to say that he greatly preferred this arrangement to the previous one.

"Now, of course, I know you are weary from your travels. Would you rather rest, or perhaps, accept some refreshment ere I do you the indiscretion of asking questions?" offered Manwë. He rose then, and appeared truly grand.

Frodo could not believe his ears. The Lord of the Valar was offering him refreshment, and was patient enough to wait for his sake. Manwë chuckled.

"My lord, my master, O greatest being to walk on Arda- your infinite kindness is too much than this poor hobbit deserves. I will not pester you longer, or take your time for the sake of my rest. I do not need any as is. You are a light to me, enough for my sustenance." Frodo choked out. The hobbit had not even thought about what he said. These words came from his heart.

"Your propriety precedes you, my dear friend." Frodo might as well have melted into a puddle, for Manwë had referred to him as a friend. Manwë perceived Frodo's surprise at his show of humility.

"There are reasons, my dear hobbit, for which I was chosen as Elder King. Reasons which I myself cannot comprehend. I never sought the mantle of king, but when Father asked me- I took it, and I never failed him. However, young hobbit- I will now hear your tale. If you are truly not in need of refreshment…"-Frodo vehemently shook his head-"Then, pray, begin."

Thousands of words immediately flooded Frodo's mind- various phrases, quotations- but there truly was only one fitting way to begin it. He cleared his throat, Manwë conjuring a small throne for him to sit on, and began-

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole full of worms and oozy smells- this was a hobbit hole. And that meant good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home."

Time passed, yet Frodo was ignorant of it. It was irrelevant here. The hobbit went on, having no trouble recollecting the words. It seemed as if the High King was egging him on, as if he gently shoved all his thoughts and memories to the fore. He needed no sustenance or rest- for the power of the Elder King was a comfort to him. He paused only to drink water, which Manwë conjured out of thin air into a small golden flagon beside him- and spoke on.

He spoke of the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, and of the 'incident with the dragon'. It was over before he knew it. Surely, it had taken days, yet that was of no notice. Then, he began, with the true great tale- His own perilous quest to defy the Lord of the Rings.

Manwë, having been attentive throughout, and having registered the narrative word-for-word, filling but a small cranny in the vast depths of his undying memory, paused at the title.

"The Lord of the Rings?" he asked with trepidation. "This tale is yours, and told from your perspective, yet you choose to name it after your darkest foe?"

"The tale may have been told from my eyes, but it is not about me. It is not I who set these events in motion. That was, however evil he may have been- Sauron. Therefore, the history is his- I only name it truly, without any wish to glorify myself. What is true is true, and it is the desire of my little folk to keep things as simple as possible." replied Frodo, with a little bow.

"You speak the truth, as always, young hobbit- pure and untainted, unchanged it flows from your mouth. Námo would have liked you indeed- it is fëar like yours, stout and true, that he values most. Pray, go on, and forgive my rude interruption."

And thus Frodo spoke of the War of the Ring. Manwë did not once stop him, except for asking if he needed refreshment, and took it all in, with the same curious, attentive expression on his beautiful face.

Finally, Frodo mouthed his description of the Fall of the Dark Tower, and the coming of the Eagles. Manwë chuckled fondly on being told, in glowing terms, of those messengers of hope. Finally, Frodo ended on a glorious, yet bittersweet note- of Aragorn's wedding with Arwen, and of his own tearful parting with his friends at the Grey Havens. The final words he spoke were a tribute to the valour of his faithful friend, Sam.

Manwë rose from his throne, descended on his knee, and cupped the Hobbit's chin in his hand.

"You have been brave- braver than most, Frodo- but I do indeed think you have had a lifetime's worth of trouble, and thus will I pester you no longer. Go- find healing in Irmo's gardens- and know that on Ilmarin upon Taniquetil, Manwë Súlimo sits evermore, your glorious tale etched forever in his memory.

Frodo gave a glowing smile of pure delight. Manwë stood up, and in an instant, Frodo found himself magically transported outside the halls. Manwë raised a hand to the air, reaching out with his thought to his eagles- and immediately, one swooped down from where it was circling above them. Frodo found a strong wind beneath his feet, and was practically lifted up onto the Eagle's back.

"Farewell, young hobbit- may Ilúvatar bless you, till the End of Time." said Manwë, and watched the Eagle set off for the Gardens of Lórien.

The Elder King appeared, with a faint crack, back into the deepest chamber of the Halls of Mandos.

"Such a small hobbit, such a young fellow- so much trouble…"- his face adopted a sad smile.

He paced around for a moment, thinking of what to tell Varda. His thought, suddenly, wandered to another thing entirely.

Contrary to what many might think, all was **not** well in Valinor. This had never happened before. It seemed to have no cure. How odd…

And then, with a loud _crack_ , much like the faint one he had made, the subject of his musings presented itself.

Manwë's expression softened, then hardened again, and he said in a sharp voice, though no less lined with care-

"Námo."

The figure in front of him was tall, but presently hunched. Its dark robes were untidy, and billowed everywhere. Its hair, black as the void, was supremely unkempt, and it looked, on the whole, terrible.

If this truly was the Doomsman, he looked harassed indeed. His cold, black eyes were watering, and had dark bags under them. His face was terribly lined, and shadows had come on his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak- and immediately let loose a series of great, hacking coughs.

"Námo." Manwë said again. With a visible effort, the Doomsman stopped coughing and retching, and looked up at the Elder King.

"I believe that as your king, I had commanded you to rest."

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Mairon-** **'Admirable One'. Sauron as he originally was.**

 **Aulë-** **'Inventor'. The Worldsmith; the smith among the Valar. Sauron's master before he betrayed him to serve Morgoth.**

 **The 'Void'-** **Prison of great blackness and nothingness outside the circles of the world. Think of it, for now, as a 'black hole' where Morgoth is currently imprisoned. Being bound there is the darkest fate Arda can offer, and the most terrible punishment.**

 **Valarin** **is the language of the Valar.**

' **Gandalf' comes from the Norse words 'Gandr' and 'álfr', in the Norrønt mál script. It translates to 'Elf of the wand'.**

 **Aman-** **Continent of Valinor, west of Middle-earth originally before the downfall of Núménor (Westernesse)**

 **Gothmog is the Lord of the Balrogs. He killed F** **ëanor. A fearsome combatant and High Captain of Angband (Morgoth's fortress in the first age), he was slain by Ecthelion of the fountain, one of the greatest Elven heroes and captain of Gondolin alongside Glorfindel. In this deed, Ecthelion gave his life as well.**

* * *

 **Well, that's that for the chapter.**

 **What happened to Mandos will be revealed- next chapter.**


	4. Strike From the Shadows

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **A/N: Well, here we have an intriguing chapter. Some might have noticed, from the cover image, that our 'Nameless Shadow' has finally gotten his body. I would imagine it to look something like that, except that the sword-blade would be black and that the helm and general look of the armour would be… perhaps… a little less like Darth Vader. Some might also have noticed that I am simply adding Author's notes to make the chapter's title more visible.**

 **Well, on we go…**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Strike From the Shadows**

Mandos locked eyes with Manwë for a second, before giving a short cough and saying "Where is the Ringbearer? I needed to talk to him."

Manwë's frown deepened, as Mandos released three coughs in succession.

"Oh, Námo. Determined as always. I believe that as of now, you are in no condition to hold an interview."

"FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM PERFECTLY FINE!"

"You don't seem so to me- and there's no need to shout. I have seen all the sufferings of the world, yet, I find you refusing to believe me after a most obvious display of your illness."

"I have work to do, Manwë! Work! I have these halls to manage! I need to look after these fëar under my care! My life, unlike yours, isn't perfect! I have not the privilege of sitting in an impossibly shiny palace upon the World's highest mountain, reclining on a comfortable throne with the choicest cushions…"

Manwë glared icily at Mandos for a second, before sighing and putting his palm to his forehead.

"Even now as you speak, your illness deludes you. I request you, for my sake, to take a sabbatical. Get some rest. Does your brother in thought's concern mean nothing to you?"

Mandos looked as if he wanted to protest, before Manwë spoke again, suddenly commanding:

"Námo- if you refuse to accept my gentle request as a brother, then I will be forced to command you as your lord! If Ilúvatar has vested in me authority enough to command you, then I use that authority, and command that, at once, you relieve yourself of the lordship of this hall!"

Mandos looked at Manwë, his black eyes boring deep into the Elder King's beautiful blue ones. For one second, Manwë could have sworn he saw a look of intense dislike on Mandos' face. It would not have surprised him if Mandos attempted to slap him.

But then, Mandos heaved a great sigh, and sank on to his knees, burying his head between them. Manwë waited for a second, straightened his robes, and sat down on the floor beside him.

Mandos had attempted a thorough mental examination of the Elder King, and to his surprise, Manwë didn't resist in the least. He threw his mind open wide like a book for Mandos to read, and the Doomsman saw nothing but utmost care, tremendous passion and unconditional brotherly love.

They sat in silence for a while, before Mandos, contrary to his usual habit, spoke first.

"Manwë, tell me- are you still angry about my actions during- cough- the trial of who was once Mairon? Is that why you looked at me so coldly but a moment ago?"

Manwë nodded, but did not say anything. Mandos coughed thrice in a row before he found his voice.

"I am… sorry. I am sorry I broke your rule, and your trust. I- I don't know what possessed me, but…"

"Námo. I am not angry at you. Even we feel rage sometimes…"

"No. It was not rage and anger that stirred me so- I do not permit myself to feel such mundane emotions. It was- rationality. I looked into his mind, and saw nothing but hatred, and burning wrath. He did not even attempt to block me. Suddenly, it struck me how cruel he had been- what he had done- how deep his treachery ran…"

"Námo-"

"You don't understand! Manwë- he broke Aulë's heart! He went as far as one could possibly go- and then the Noldor would cause unrest if he was given a second chance which he did not deserve! He deserved the void, Manwë! I'm sorry if I acted rashly, as I have never before done, but I knew you would be all too eager to give him a second chance- or even worse, been indecisive, as you had been when Melkor was in his place- the evidence against him was overwhelming, and I- I- just had to do it. Sorry."

"You are confused, Námo. Your mind needs rest. Seek not to justify what you have done- a mere acknowledgement would suffice for me, one who loves you so much."

"Manwë- I am sorry. I ought not to have acted like that, and never will. I hope you can forgive me."

"And I'm sorry as well. I promise you, Námo, if it is any comfort to you, to be more- ah- decisive- in the future. I will not let love or any other emotion cloud my judgment- but you must understand this. Not every time does emotion cloud judgment- and in my experience, it usually enriches it. Love, especially, enriches judgment, as it enriches everything. It is the most powerful magic to have been woven in by Ilúvatar, and its power is stronger still than the mightiest song of the mightiest Ainu. Please, for my sake, do not block your heart, and feel the love that we shower upon you."

Mandos contemplated this for a second, and then slowly nodded. Manwë stood up, his anger having quite evaporated.

Just as the Lord of the Breath of Arda cleared his throat, however, Mandos gave a series of coughs, and then started spluttering and retching. The Lord of the Valar immediately knelt back down again to help the Doomsman up, his face full of worry and care.

"Námo. You shall leave these halls- right now. You will go to your brother Lórien, and he and Estë, on my orders, will do everything in their power to heal you, even if they must devote all their time to it. Seeing that you may not have strength enough, I will carry you there myself."

"Who –cough- will take care –splutter- of the Halls in my -cough- my absence?" Mandos managed to choke out.

Manwë sighed, before placing his hand over Mandos' throat and muttering an incantation. Though the Doomsman still felt ill, his throat cleared.

"That is none of your concern- yet, I will tell you that Varda, my wife, will be happy to manage these halls. If it is a cause of discomfort to her- then I promise you that I myself will leave Taniquetil and take care of your duties."

Mandos managed the smallest of smiles. What he valued most in Manwë was the fact that he had no qualms in accepting even the lowest work if it was any comfort for a loved one.

"I am fine" said he, and tried to free himself of Manwë's grasp. The latter held him tighter.

"Nonsense."

"Manwë, you must…"

"If I hear another protest from you, Námo, I believe it is within my power to slap you rather hard on the cheek and then gag you with a suitable restraint forged by Aulë."

Mandos said nothing more, managing a grimace. The sooner he'd get out of this, the better. Look what this illness had already made him do- smile twice in a row- break down in front of his lord…

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone" said Manwë, sensing his thoughts.

The Elder King then concentrated on the Gardens of Lórien, and with a flash of bright light, they were gone.

* * *

Thranduil, King of the Woods, was displeased. He had enjoyed the friendship and company of Lord Celeborn, who had passed across the sea, despite, Thranduil knew, loving the woods of Middle-Earth more than all the splendour of the Undying Lands.

"For my wife" he had said, explaining that his wife, Galadriel, having grown weary of the land at last, had given in to the call of the seagulls, and had decided to leave. Lord Elrond, too, left with them.

Was he, Thranduil, the only one left? The only true elf-lord? Was he the only one who had ever loved the land?

As this contemplation struck him, he wondered, was Oropher the only one to have come back because he missed the land. Oh. It all became clear to him now.

Those untrue elves had come seeking glory, and conquest. They had chased their ambition, and thus come to Middle-Earth, not in the least desiring exploration of the wonders it held. They had never loved it, as he did.

More cruel thoughts came to his mind, about how the untrue elves had simply just gone- cowards, thoughtless fools, heartless creatures- when he paused. No- those thoughts were not his own. He would never think such ill of Lords Elrond or Celeborn, or of Lady Galadriel.

Some evil, then, was definitely at work. Now that he thought of this, he definitely could sense a darkness around his realm. He cast his senses out further. Something malicious was lurking in the shadows. Even now, it seemed on edge, as if to charge at any moment.

WHAM. The door was thrown open with such force that it smashed into the wall of the cave. In rushed the first captain of his archers, appointed just days ago- Rúmil.

Ever since his Lord and Lady had departed for Valinor, Rúmil had joined Thranduil's service, quickly becoming appointed as Captain of his archers, since the previous occupant had been murdered by Khamûl the Nazgûl himself, who, in a desperate attempt to buckle the Elvenking's resistance, had snuck behind his lines as a shadow and killed not only his captain of archers, but also the captain of his armies and the head of the Palace Guards as well.

It was only when Thranduil had intervened did the Nazgûl flee, going back to Mordor to defend the Black Gate, never to be seen by him again.

Rúmil broke Thranduil's thoughts as he said, very quickly-

"Don't know what hit us. Unprepared. Unknowing. It was as a blur! A storm upon our lines! A patrol, larger than usual…"

"Calm down, Rúmil. I am due to inspect my army at any moment, so I might as well do so now, seeing for myself what damage has been done. You can tell me what has happened as we walk."

Thranduil stood up from his throne, got to the front door, and set off at a brisk pace, Rúmil falling into step beside him, and telling him exactly what had happened.

"Elite- very elite- and there was certainly some sorcery about them. We were patrolling, as usual, with a rather larger party than we usually bring along- and then it happened. Like a flash, we were charged and overrun. Before we had a chance to aim our bows, the enemy charged us again- and they kept cycle-charging us until we managed to kill one of their number. Just one. "

"Just one?"

"Yes, hir nin. We did manage to get quite a few shots off, but the arrows simply glanced off their armour. We then aimed for their horses, but they had some sorcerous shield that subverted the direction of our arrows. The one we killed was felled by all of us shooting precisely at its horse's legs and then at its face. Then again, either we could not see its face beneath its hood, or else it was just a blank, empty face without a nose, mouth or eyes."

"More and more curious. Did you identify where they came from?"

"I do believe they came from the ruins of the Dark Fortress, hir nin."

"Dol Guldur?! So there is still evil in there! I believe I had Lady Galadriel's assurance that all twisted, cursed life within that fortress had been wiped out! Yet, as always, evil has been allowed to endure…"

He looked at the remnant of the patrol.

"Oh Eru- six whole cohorts! With so few charges! Rúmil, this was definitely done by an enemy of great power."

"My King?"

"Yes, we must destroy it immediately. Rally the army! I myself will march forth and purge this evil."

Thranduil sent a servant to fetch his armour and swords, which he dual- wielded, and also his staff, should he need it. Rúmil, meanwhile, summoned his brother Orophin, who had become the infantry captain, and together, they set about assembling the entirety of the Elven army stationed at Thranduil's palace.

Everything having been made ready, Thranduil cast out his senses, as before. He concentrated for a second, and felt the shadow clearly. They were not far from here- quite close, in fact…

He focused a little more. All became clear to him now, as he strained himself- they were charging this very way, in fact…

"Angado haid!" The King screamed suddenly, and the soldiers, by virtue of his foresight, managed to brace themselves before the storm broke.

It truly seemed like a storm, as a small group of Dark Horsemen, riding Black Horses and wearing Ancient, unyielding mail that somehow seemed shadowy, burst out of the trees, which seemed to sway out of the way…

"Leithio i philinn!" Thraduil roared, and the elite Elven archers let fly with their bows. All the arrows were aimed exactly for the horses, looking to bring them down-

By some foul art, most arrows simply swerved away, not hitting their targets. Although some of the diverted arrows did strike the horses adjacent, this did nothing to deter the Dark Knights, and with brutal snarls, they fell upon the Elven lines, scattering many and killing yet more. At least three seemed to get killed with each swing of their deadly scythes.

Thranduil had expected this, though he had never anticipated the amount of casualties they would take from one charge alone. However, on his order, the elves started to fight back, some Dark Horses beginning to spout small amounts of blood. However, just when the elves were looking to encircle the knights, they swerved round, and, by immense skill, managed to re-form their ranks in another corner of the narrow, wooded battlefield, to cycle-charge them again.

Again they struck, like bolts of lightning, yet, now, the elves took less casualties, as they were better prepared for the onslaught. Now, the elven warriors managed to fell two of the knights. However, as their horses were felled, the riders simply vanished into shadow.Thranduil noted this.

The Knights, this time, took a lot more time to pull through to continue their tactic of cycle charging. As the last one of them pulled out, Thranduil used his elven eye to drink in every detail of its appearance.

The Dark, spiked helm. The invisible face. The shadowy mail. The Black Capes. The only thing the Elvenking did not recognize from memories past was the scythe. These Knights had never, in his experience, ever used scythes. As the Knight rode away, the King could have sworn he saw sparks flickering off the blade of his scythe…

At last, he had recognised his foes. There was only one unit in Sauron's army with these characteristics. They were the greatest among the elite. The most dangerous soldiers Sauron ever fielded in battle. Under his breath, the Elvenking hissed "Morgûl Knights!"

Some, he saw, were definitely wraiths, possibly stabbed with Morgûl blades in the past- and some were men. Ancient men- Black Núménoreans who had lived thousands of years due to foul sorcery. There were only about a hundred of them, yet they were wreaking terrible havoc, this time adopting a different tactic- that of having their dark horses jump into the air and swinging their scythes to fell the first line of elves. No casualties.

Thranduil gave a bitter smile. He knew how to finish them now.

He set his swords and staff aside, and wielded his royal bow. He then drew some arrows reserved for fighting such enemies only- known by the Elves as Thorns of Vengeance.

He drew one of the fabled arrows, and slowly began enchanting it, focusing his might, singing a song of power to bolster its capability. He then released the thorn, which struck true, and pierced the helm of a knight, which collapsed onto the ground, dead. A man.

He enchanted another arrow, more quickly this time, causing him some strain, and fired upon another. The arrow stuck in its face, and it vanished. Vaporised. So this was a wraith. However, the knight who had disappeared previously appeared again, and occupied the horse. Thranduil, with ire, shot it down as well.

Greater power was needed. At once, he strung five, focusing all his power and gritting his teeth, and without bothering to aim, released them. Luck was on his side, as five knights, all men, collapsed dead.

By then, the knights had completed two charges, but the elves were getting better at dodging them. Three more had been deprived of their horses, and the two men among them killed. The second charge had barely killed any elves.

Thranduil knew this war of attrition would end in his favour. He strung two arrows this time. However, he had barely just begun his song of enchantment when the storm-blast came.

The Knights had retreated further back this time, oddly enough, defending. The levs had then charged them, leaving their right flank open- and then the lightning came. Great discharges of forked lightning struck, almost always hitting elven warriors. No thunderbolt struck the ground. Three blasts descended directly upon the balcony on which the commanders were standing. Thranduil quickly drew up one of his swords, and with immense power and precision, blocked and contained the bolt, which was conducted away by the metal of his blade.

To his right, Rúmil had used Thranduil's enchanted staff to block the bolt meant for him, and Orophin had dodged his.

Reinforcements, it seemed, had come.

A figure that had definitely not been there seconds ago was present right in the middle of the Elves' formation.

This was no ordinary horseman. He rode a horse which seemed completely spectral. It was even translucent, to a degree. The knight himself seemed also spectral, but had full armour on and wore a brilliantly blue helm and visor. His armour was dark blue. The vicious-looking Halberd he wielded, Thranduil was sure, crackled with dark energy.

Right in the middle of the elven formation, he lifted his halberd high and swung it around, slaying many. Dark bolts flew from it randomly, killing yet more, but primarily stunning the elves. No weapons seemed to make a dent on him. He was disrupting the entire formation all by himself.

Thranduil looked to the east, and found that another group of about fifty Morgûl knights was upon their right flank. The two groups, taking advantage of the disrupted lines, unleashed a brutal hammer-and-anvil charge that completely destroyed their lines. Thranduil shook his head, cursed, and sent in his reserves, the elite Palace Guards accompanying them.

He himself took an arrow and enchanted it, then fired at the Storm-bringer. The arrow, though it did not pierce the armour, did make a rather large dent.

The Knight of Storms looked up at the King for the first time. Thranduil knew he was enjoying himself immensely. He could feel the sadistic pleasure radiating off the Knight's aura.

Suddenly, the Knight held up his halberd as a javelin, pointed directly at Thranduil, and threw it.

It was not a halberd- it seemed as if the Knight had unleashed a thunderbolt. Thranduil ducked, the weapons flying in a straight path above him.

"Ow!" said the Knight, being poked by all the elves with swords and spears. The elves were momentarily surprised at this sound.

"Sorry, need me weapon back" said the knight, and opened his gauntleted palm wide. The Halberd soared back, changing course. Thranduil, who had just stood back up, was in the deadly weapon's path…

The Elvenking turned around in the nick of time, crossing his swords together to block the thunderbolt. He was blown off his feet, the sparks creating various burns on his arms as the halberd came close to his body. The weapon then flew back to its owner.

Thranduil exerted all his force of will to get up, and saw that one of his beautiful, perfect blades was ruined. The blade no longer remained, and it smoked at the hilt. The second was still largely intact.

Looking again, he saw something else. No. It could not be. Ai ai ai!

Rúmil was sprawled dead on the ground, his dead eyes staring blankly at the Elvenking, the royal staff at his side.

Thranduil could not have survived that blast. Rúmil, then, must have rushed up to him, the enchanted staff held ready to shield him. He must have taken the full brunt of the lightning, then- and look what it did to him. He lay dead, his life simply snuffed out.

"Ai Valar, Help Us!" thought Thranduil. He had finally begun to lose hope- half his army had been slaughtered.

And his prayer was answered.

Just as the Dark Knights were about to charge again, it seemed as if rips opened in the sky. Out poured the brightest of light. It was definitely magical, as it seemingly stunned the knights and held them in their path. Then, yet more beams came forth and scattered them in all directions. Finally, it seemed, the Storm Knight fought alone, surrounded.

The fabric of the world was seemingly torn apart, as great rifts opened in the earth, through which came two Long, thin pillars of Bright White flame. The pillars pursued the Morgûl Knights, killing quite a few of their number. As the flames progressed, gouging further fissures in the earth, the previous fissures seemingly healed. They closed up, and all looked normal again, and definitely not scorched.

Thranduil suddenly felt a great warmth in his fëa. The path ahead was lit. He would duel the Storm-bringer, and he would kill him. Brandishing his sword in one hand and his staff in the other, he leapt from the Balcony, making a perfect landing.

"O menel aglar Elenath!" he roared, it being the first cry that reached his throat, as he charged towards the knight. He sensed, for the first time, that the Storm-bringer was afraid.

"Oh, Crikey." said the Knight. He must not face the Elvenking now. The Elves around him stepped back, partly because their King was charging, and partly because they had not heard the phrase he uttered before, and thought it some curse.

Thranduil was almost upon him. No. He would not fight him now.

A thunderbolt struck the exact spot the Knight was at, once again blowing the Elvenking off his feet. When he got up and looked, the Storm Knight was gone.

The clouds came back and the divine light receded. The flames disappeared, the last cracks they had made getting closed instantly.

" **COWARD!"** he bellowed. **"COOOWWWWAAARRRD!"**

Through the clouds, a shadow passed, flickering faintly with sparks.

As the spirit that had descended on Mirkwood as a spectral Knight thought of a destination- where to land and take form again- some other thoughts came to his mind.

After all, it was only a few weeks ago that he had gotten his form, to serve his master. Ah, his master- "Absolutely Spiffing Fellow"- as the Knight referred to him…

He was, however, not the only one serving his master. There was that Shadowy Blighter who went around doing his errands as well. For some reason, his master had always favoured said shadowy blighter for some reason.

Odd that he should do that- here was the Knight, glorious and gleaming, able to summon a thousand storms- and there was the shadow. An intense void of blackness, he was- nothing. What his master saw in the shadow he could not understand.

However, it was the shadow that had told him where to strike, and how to get to Mirkwood. He seemed very efficient- and he had also told him exactly how to attack successfully.

Wonder where he was now- gone wandering among Darkness, perhaps. No matter what apprehensions the Knight had about him- very useful fellow, that shadow.

* * *

 **Well, that was a chapter with quite some action. I rather enjoyed writing this one.**

 **I finally welcome my new character, the 'Storm Knight'. Apparently he serves the same master as the shadow, or as I should** **now** **refer to him, Lord Mormanar.**

 **He is also, apparently, without my knowing it- a British Chav with a cockney accent. Sometimes I have no control over what I am writing. As it turns out, I will be using him for a little comic relief...**


	5. And So, It Begins

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: 400 views- and 6 reviews. Well, that's just cold. Going by the rate I expect, which is at least 1 review per 50 views, it is- not up to scratch. Thanks to Comedy Monarchy for the review, as always- I'm glad you liked the 'Storm Knight'.**

 **Here we are, a new chapter, and quite a bit of action. Now, I have a method of simply writing up chapters and hoarding them, ceasing to update until the review-quota is not fulfilled.**

 **I may be perceived as a 'Review-Whore'- but I am what I am. That said, I do have one chapter left in my hoard, and I will not release it for a while, for I have to write up more. So, plenty of time to fill that review-quota…**

 **I can be particularly nasty at times, and if it isn't fulfilled- let's just say I'll fall back on the old FFnet standby- that of writing up a cliffie and ceasing to update for a loooong time.**

 **Well, on we go…**

 **Chapter 4: And So, It Begins**

Evening had come upon Valinor's Gold-washed shores. In the Blessed Realm, Dusk was as beautiful a thing as Dawn, and seeing Arien disappear from view was as wonderful as seeing her rise into the sky in the morning.

All seemed fine, and no one had heard of the illness of Mandos, thanks to the labours of the Valar. It remained a secret that he had, in fact, left the halls of Mandos, and was now being treated in the Gardens of Lórien.

As for the Halls, Manwë had decided that, the following day, he would tell everyone that Mandos, having seen much suffering, needed a little recuperation, and thus had left his halls for a while. By Day, Varda would move in and take charge of the halls, and by night, when she was needed to adjust the positions of her stars, the Halls would be under the care of Nienna.

It would all go smoothly- However, it did leave one day in which the halls would be under the care of no one.

It so happened that Tuor, defender of Gondolin, whom the Valar had made an exception for so that he could live an immortal life with Idril, was taking his regular evening stroll by the halls that day.

It was a regular habit of his, walking along the shores, keeping the Halls of Mandos to his right, and then eventually entering to visit the many disembodied fëar who would sit there evermore, pondering their lives.

He was glad that he wasn't one of them, or worse, passed out of the circles of the world like he was meant to, leaving Idril alone, and was grateful to the Valar. A condition of his immortal life was that he would have to come to the halls regularly, and, like the fëar, sit down and recall his life, his wrongs and his deeds. However, he was allowed to leave the halls every time he finished with this.

He had just finished his reminiscence that day, when something about the halls surprised him. When he had entered, they had looked as they always had, imposing and impressive, but not dark and foreboding as they seemed now.

Why did they suddenly look like a place of dread? As he looked closer still, he could see that the halls looked- _darker._ He looked closer still, his nose coming almost smack against the walls, and could swear he could _see_ the shadows. The Odd Blackness, nothingness beneath the nooks and crannies, that hadn't been there before. _And then they moved._

Tuor shook his head vigorously, and bade the images leave his mind. Was he going mad? He sincerely hoped not. He looked to his side again.

There were some elflings, playing in the shade, looking happy as ever. The coast near the halls of Mandos was not the most cheerful place, and he had wondered quite a few times why they played _here_ , of all places.

Maybe they lived nearby, and this was the best place they could play. Ah, children- he loved them so! The happiness they brought into a place, and another's life, no matter how gloomy it may have been before- truly, they were wonderful.

He looked again, and saw various _Ellons_ and _Elleths_ in couples _,_ dangling their legs over the edge, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. He chuckled heartily- he was worrying for nothing.

Then, something happened that silenced his chuckling. Something he had never seen before- _The Shadows Gathered._

The Dark Shadows on the side of the Halls suddenly came out and took shape, forming a wall of blackness around him. Tuor tried to cry out, but found an icy hand on his throat choking him and silencing him. The shadows formed a dark sheet around him, and the wall seemed to _melt away-_ and before he knew it, the Dark Force had sucked him into the Halls.

* * *

The Last thing Aragorn II Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, expected was this to happen. The Slaughtering of Three-fifths of king Thranduil's great Elven army, and that too by a group of only a hundred and fifty Dark Knights, came as quite a shock- but more shocking still was the appearance of this so-called 'Storm Knight'.

A spectral figure wielding such terrible sorcery to summon a thousand storms was, indeed, a supremely rare occurrence in Arda. So, it seems, evil had persisted.

"Go, Hador, go to Lord Faramir. He is to be notified of this at once. Make sure to inform Prince Legolas of Ithilien of these tidings as well, for they concern his father."

"My Lord, am I…"

"Yes, of course you are allowed to read them, boy. If I wish tidings delivered, I wish them delivered by a capable and well-informed messenger. Go now, in haste- for I am sure my friend will wish to visit the woods of his home again when he hears of this. Tarry not—go!"

The boy gave a swift nod, and scurried off as fast as his legs would carry him. _He could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years of age,_ thought the King.

However, there was work to be done.

"Amdir." he said, calling for one of the dour-handed Dúnedain rangers who had explored the wilds tirelessly alongside himself and Halbarad, and now, weary of war, had become a part of his court. The former Ranger hastened to him.

"My Lord?"

"We have work to do."

* * *

Tuor was thrown onto the cold, hard floor. What had happened to him, he did not know. What he did know was that he was in the Halls of Mandos.

It was deathly cold. The Halls were never exactly a warm place, and with a Vala in there, he had always felt a strange, comforting warmth in his heart- but it was not there any longer. The place itself seemed darker, and the room he was deposited into seemed extremely foreboding.

" _Calm Down. Calm Down."_ said Tuor to himself. He found that he was shaking.

" _Nothing can happen to you in this land. You are safe in the Land of the Valar. This must be an accident- a misunderstanding, of some sorts. Now all you have to do is find the way out, and you'll be fine. Come now, Tuor, Idril is waiting."_ he thought, encouraging himself to get up.

The room was dark, and it took his eyes a while to become accustomed to it. He could see no dark shadows- good. It seemed completely bare of furniture. He swung his great axe, Dramborleg, cleaver of Balrogs' necks- and made his was cautiously to the door of Dark Iron in front of him, which was ajar. He would make his way out of here.

The Iron Door shut itself with a Clang. He was trapped

"What devilry is this?" he thought to himself.

"Is it, though?" came a voice, unbidden, into his mind.

It was oddly metallic, and completely dry- devoid of all feeling. If Tuor had not seen the horrors of Angband with his naked eyes, he would have fainted at its pure _darkness_. It seemed to come from an abyss, yet it was there.

"What is this?"

"As you termed it, 'devilry'. Is it devilry, however? Or is it salvation?"

"Who is saying this?!"

"Puny Mortal- it is what will rescue Arda. And you- you are the first stepping-stone. As for your second question…"

Once again, the shadows, which had not been in the room prior to his mental conversation, gathered and took shape.

It seemed that the shadows were morphing into the form of a tall figure, of the shape of a man. It seemed less like a man and more like a dark spirit as the shadows morphed further, seven feet tall and wearing full armour. It was armour of a king he'd never seen before.

It obscured every part of the figure's body- if it had a body. It had a Dark, brutal, but somehow majestic helm, with Black spikes, resembling somewhat of a twisted crown, at the top. The face was obscured by a terrible mask, make of pure shadow, it seemed. Black and unyielding, it covered every inch of the face, making it appear that there was no face.

In fact, the armour itself seemed somehow shadowy, blurred at parts. A long black cloak, this time seeming to be fashioned out of _darkness, blackness more potent than the usual shadow,_ descended from the figure's shoulders. It billowed about, and obscured the lower part of the armour, except the black boots, which seemed to be made of metal, yet had no spike at the front as was common.

Even now, as Tuor looked on grimly, the figure was clutching a strange, ancient hilt in its gauntleted fist. There was no blade.

"I believe I have made it clear enough to you that we are about to duel." said the figure.

"How can you- in the land of the Valar- how-"

"The forces of darkness have ways you and your precious Valar cannot comprehend."

"I shall tell them- I shall tell the Valar! They shall be able to hear my prayers, as ever they have done…"

Even as he spoke, an icy, invisible hand seemed to close around his throat, silencing him.

"The Valar cannot help you. It is only yourself that can save you now. Cease your prattling now, Mortal! I was told you were a hero- I bid you, prove it."

With that, the dark Shadow released his grip on Tuor's throat, and the man charged, bringing Dramborleg down upon the Shadow's helm- and then he saw the blade.

A Black Blade, seeming also to be made out of shadow, had come out in a split second from the hilt. It was pulsating. It seemed, somehow, to be more _liquid than solid._ The Shadow then brought it up with such force, that it made brutal contact with Dramborleg, sending Tuor flying back.

While he lay on the ground, the Shadow circled, not attacking. He got up again, and with a battle-cry, charged him again.

This time, the Shadow ducked his blow. The axe was brought swishing down to his side, but was expertly deflected by the shadowy blade.

Still, the Shadow made no move to counter.

Tuor decided to unleash his best battle-skills in a brutal combo not even a Balrog could have defended against- but each and every time, the Shadow invariably parried his blows, and so perfectly that he was sent back, reeling.

It seemed as if the Shadow was prescient, and knew exactly what Tuor was going to do before he did it. The precise calculation with which he countered had not been seen by Tuor in even Eönwë, the best swordsman in Arda.

Throwing caution to the winds, he bellowed, and repeatedly attempted to strike the Shadow's helm from above, but he was blocked every time, and did not even succeed in staggering his opponent.

Finally, though, he sensed an opening. He went through for a stab, an odd approach for an axe, but it was a feint. The Shadow guessed it, and brought his blade upwards, where Tuor was going to strike his chest after diverting his blade.

Again- it was a perfect parry- but then, Tuor carried out his trick. Gripping Dramborleg with his other hand, he brought it slashing down sideways with an animalistic howl, smashing a very sizable hole into the Armour. The Shadow guessed too late, and threw Tuor back, reeling from the impact.

Tuor could see no flesh or sinew under the crack. A minimal amount of an odd Blackness was spurting out. The Shadow righted himself. He was staggered, definitely, but felt no pain.

Then, contrary to his usual habit, the Shadow attacked.

After a few seconds, Tuor found that it was quite impossible to defend. The Shadow struck with such terrible precision, such cold calculation, that it was completely impossible to stop all the blows. The attacks came from every angle, thrusts aimed with the intent that an opponent wielding an axe would have particular difficulty to block.

Tuor, completely drained after just a small while, knew his only hope was to be getting on the offensive. He blocked the shadow forcefully, jumped into the air, and swung Dramborleg with such incredible power as he had never before done in his life- but the Shadow was ready. This is what he had been anticipating all along.

The Black Blade was swung so precisely, with so much power, in the direction of Tuor's axe that it had to break. There was nothing for it. Dramborleg split apart. Tuor was swatted aside like a fly by the sheer force of the blow, and after a few agonising seconds, landed heavily onto the ground.

"A worthy opponent, Tuor, son of Huor" said the Shadow.

A dark, Gauntleted hand found Tuor's shoulder, and dragged him up.

Dazed, Tuor blinked confusedly as the Black Blade was drawn again, and plunged Deep, Deep into his chest. He could do nothing.

Strangely, no blood spurted out, as he had expected it to. The tip of the Dark Blade did not burst out of his back. Instead, he felt tremendously cold, colder than he had ever felt. It seemed as if the Blade undid its shape within him, and the shadows spread to every part of his body, like poison.

The Shadow then withdrew the blade, and Tuor suddenly felt robbed of all energy, of all life. He did not want to live any more- he was powerless. A complete vegetable.

Before he fell to the ground, the Dark hand reached forth, and seized him by the throat. His mind seemed to clear as he was slowly pulled up, his feet leaving the ground.

 _No. He would not let this Shadow have the last laugh. He would show scorn in the face of Death._

"So, you false charlatan- you think you are some kind of 'Lord of Doom and Darkness'?" he spat, with a massive effort.

" _No."_ Said the Shadow. Tuor was, in fact, quite shocked. The shadow then continued.

"That is erroneous, for I _am_ Doom and Darkness. Its Lord- is someone else entirely."

And finally, knowing he had chilled Tuor to the bone with these words, and frightened him as he never had been frightened, the Shadow reached up with his other Gauntleted hand, and did the unthinkable- _he removed his mask._

The Last thing Tuor saw in his life on Arda was a pair of terrible, ghastly glowing green eyes.

 **A/N: Well, who expected me to do that? How many of you suspected that Mormanar would commit his first Murder in this chapter? This is the first taste of Mormanar's darkness.**

 **Why Tuor?**

 **It was because it struck me as not being fair that he was allowed to live as one of the Eldar. Besides, his position and family tree has quite a lot to do with it.**

 **About Mormanar-**

 **He is NOT a basilisk! His eyes do not kill people- what they do will be revealed shortly. He has not yet reached his full power, but he is slowly gaining strength. He did not use his considerable array of shadow-manipulation and dark sorcery, mainly because he was employing them to mask both their presences from the Valar.**

 **But when he does get to Full Power- It will be EPIC.**

 **As for the Dark Lord- any new guesses?**


	6. Shadows over Valinor

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Last time I asked for reviews- and all of you have risen to it magnificently. Many Thanks to Comedy Monarchy FramedCuriosity, The DeathMaster, SithKingofAngmar, TheMorgulknights, A Mad Crackpot and LthienLover0000 for the reviews.**

 **All except Comedy Monarchy and FramedCuriosity seem to be Guests. Odd that I have five followers, and the guests are the ones who review- but I can't complain, because a follow is more than enough motivation for me.**

 **Special Thanks to A Mad Crackpot for writing the Most Hilariously Preposterous Theory of all so far- That of** _ **Manw**_ _ **ë**_ **being the Dark Lord! I laughed my head off at that- I must do a crackfic featuring a DarkLord!Manw** **ë** **at some point of time, it's just too ridiculous to resist.**

 **Thanks to Comedy Monarchy for the thoughtful insights- it seems everyone is convinced that there is a traitor among the Valar! Really, it pays to have reviewers like these- you get to know more about your** _ **own**_ **fic, apparently.**

 **Well, now, last chapter was quite the shocker, with Mormanar murdering Tuor** _ **in Valinor-**_ **see what he gets up to in this one…**

 **Chapter 5: Shadows over Valinor**

"Something is wrong."

Varda had said the words three times already.

"Something is wrong."

"Varda, my love, what in the world could…"

"Manwë, something is wrong! I listen to the voices of all those we are charged to protect, and I can hear but the faintest cry, the most strangled, choked plea from anybody whom I have sworn to protect- much as you can see the plight of all who walk this Earth. Just now, I heard a cry for help. It was alarmingly clear at first, yet it was silenced thereafter."

"Silenced? Who could silence an innate plea from the heart of a fëa?"

"I know not- not even Melkor could! No matter what one may try, it would always reach my ears- but this one, it seems, was obstructed. Choked. Silenced."

"Who was it, my love? Where?"

"Nay, I cannot say who it was that sent forth this plea, but it is plain to me that it was someone close to us. Someone- here."

"In Valinor?"

"Yea, in Valinor! It was startlingly clear for a second, before being drained of its potency. It would be- about the western side, I think- near- I must hazard a guess- The Halls of Mandos."

"Námo's halls? I believe, as always, that you speak true- Varda, this could…"

"Manwë?"

"This could mean a matter of grave import. First, Námo, unlike ever before, falls ill with a strange malady. Secondly, I extricate Námo from his halls to be healed. Thirdly, on the very night that the halls are left without a master, something wrong, you say, happens."

"Find out, then. Find out what is wrong- head atop Oiolossë and stretch your gaze far out. You, my love, will be able to see what Varda could not."

Manwë nodded and swept off, making his way back up the mountain-path. It was nighttime in Valinor, and Manwë and Varda had just left Ilmarin to make their way to Mandos' halls, which Varda would take charge of. Manwë, as usual, would escort his spouse, and was just preparing to work the magic that would take them there instantly, when Varda had mouthed that something was wrong.

Varda looked now, and could see her husband gazing out from the top of their palace, his eye able to see every little thing in Valinor.

A few moments later, Manwë came back down again, having finished his inspection. He found Varda sitting on a rock. As usual, he proffered his arm to her.

Varda took it, and descended lightly. The set off at a brisk pace, walking awhile for the sake of conversation.

"So, my love, what did your eyes see?" asked Varda.

Manwë paused for a moment, then said heavily, 'Nothing.'

"What? I was wrong, then? Never, in my life upon Arda, have my ears ever-"

"There was… something."

"What- _thing?"_

"I could not see any Dark Presence who was not here before, nor can I see any evidence of evil deeds. I can, however, _feel something._ _Something unnatural."_

"This unnatural presence- could you sense it? Touch its fëa?"

"I tried to extend myself to touch it, but I could find no _fëa. No soul._ It was just- shadow. No physical form, either. Just a shadow, around which everything seemed to darken as it passed."

"If this is what caused something wrong to happen, then we must find it immediately! Manwë, I need you to…"

"I know."

Manwë put an arm around Varda's waist, and she, in turn, put both her arms around his shoulders. There was a flash of bright light, and they disappeared, only to reappear moments later near the Halls of Mandos.

The several elves at the spot took one look at them and were immediately at their feet, bowing and kneeling.

"Rise, dear Children, and bow no more. We do not command servitude from anyone." said Manwë.

At that, the several Elves got up, though still bowing.

Manwë surveyed the scene. The Sea was to their left, the halls to their right. He took a glance at Varda, who nodded, and they both advanced purposefully forward. They could both sense the same thing- though faint, there was a lingering shadow over the place.

Varda, dark hair flying behind her in the night, looked at Manwë, and said- "Whoever has come here and caused me unrest has definitely masked his disappearance well. Even now, I sense it amongst us. It is not a fëa in the impersonal, for otherwise we would have power over it- it is a shadow. Not daring to come too close lest our light be its end. Neither can I channel that light and use it to dispel the shadow- ever it changes its position.

"It does not flee, for we would sense it and destroy it. It hangs in the air around us, not taunting, but somehow- _calculating._ I can sense it _calculating._ Varda- this is something we have never seen before- a dark entity like no other."

"Perhaps we-"

Varda was cut off as a beautiful, but distressed and harassed- looking Elleth ran their way, face displaying nothing but worry. She ran on, but tripped up, and flew into the air, on course for a very painful landing.

Varda took one look and ran forward, bending down just in time to catch the falling elf before she hit the ground, and then cradling her close to her bosom.

"Idril- what worries you so?" said the Valië gently, as Idril Celebrindal's tears wetted her robes.

Idril gave two choked gasps, finally sobbing out- 'Tuor!' 'Missing!'

With that, she started sobbing uncontrollably.

"There, there, Idril, I'm sure we will find Tuor. Worry not, this is our land. Nothing can happen to your husband."

Manwë, knowing a lot of tact, said nothing, but also bent down with a reassuring expression. Deep down, he was thinking exactly what Varda was thinking- Tuor had been the one to give off the strangled cry. A terrible deed, then, had been done.

Varda, meanwhile, had succeeded in calming Idril down, and had gently used her magic to clear Idril's mind so that she could answer her questions.

"Since when has he been missing, Idril? Where did you last see him?"

"I know not since when he has been missing! Normally, he- would-" Idril let out another sob, which Varda gently calmed her down again for.

"Sor-sorry, my lady- The Last I saw of him was when he left in the afternoon for these halls, where he was bound to sit and brood- then- then he would have his walk here, along the coast…"

"Come." said Manwë and Varda in unison, and they led Idril along. They searched the whole coastline, and entered the Halls of Mandos, searching every nook and cranny of it for Tuor- but they could not find him.

"So now what, Manwë? This is a disaster! Someone gone missing in Valinor- and one as well-known as Tuor, at that…"

"There may yet be one way of finding him, my love" said the Elder King gravely.

"And what would that be?"

"That of you taking immediate Lordship of these halls."

"Well, I am ready. Tell me how-"

"Are you quite sure you wouldn't like to go back to Taniquetil, and rest awhile, and then return in the morning? That way, I will also have time to brief…."

"Oh, surely! Wait! Ever that was your counsel, Manwë –wait. Her husband"- she gestured at Idril- "is missing. I will not wait, my love."

"If that is indeed your wish, Varda- then I will see it done."

Manwë disappeared with yet another flash of light. Idril broke anew into sobs, while Varda comforted her again. After a while, the Elleth had stopped crying, with a familiar look of Grim Determination coming on her face. There was another flash of light, and Manwë was back.

"I have spoken with Námo- he says he has willed the lordship of these halls into your hands. Now all that is left is to take his great book of dooms…"

Manwë went over to the smooth Black Pedestal and took from it the most ancient book in Arda.

"…And write the event of the change in Lordship here."

Varda took Mandos' black quill, and wrote that she would take lordship of the halls.

"Now all that is left is for you to take the throne of Mandos." said Manwë, motioning towards a black, unadorned, straight-backed black throne in front of them.

Varda heaved a sigh, strode over, and took her seat.

At once, the labyrinthine interiors of the halls came into her mind's view, the complex plan becoming painfully clear. She was now the mistress of these halls. Manwë took the time to disappear again and return with some cushions for his beloved.

A few seconds later, Varda opened her eyes again, and said "I cannot see him. He is not here. He is then truly missing."

"Is he dead?" asked Idril, a cold weight drawing upon her heart.

"No. If he was dead, he would pass out of the circles of this world, since he was a man- but then, I would sense his passing" said Manwë. "His fëa, as I sense it, is still on Arda- but where, I cannot say- for it is obscured by shadow."

"Ilúvatar curse these shadows!" shouted Idril, now looking vengeful.

"There is nothing we can do, Idril- except wait and watch." said Varda, refusing the cushions, and settling down on the throne. Her heart heavy, Idril left the scene, Manwë disappearing with another flash of light.

Lord Mormanar, from where he was hidden in his shadows, released a cold chill, one that Varda sensed, and looked around in alarm due to.

"Ha!" thought he. He had them in a nice fix, just as the Dark Lord wished. The hole in his shadowy armour was healed by the energy of Tuor's fëa- which he had devoured. He had imbibed the man's spirit in his own, making his own self stronger. When the Valar had been busy with Idril, he had escaped, an undetectable blackness hovering over Valinor. He must find a new target, one just as worthy as Tuor, if not more so… Ahhh, Alqualondë.

)-(

King Elessar waited until Amdir, a ranger and one of his old friends, hastened to his side.

"As I said, we have work to do."

"Very well, My Lord."

"You were my comrade in arms, hence there is no need to refer to me as 'lord'. Now, I wish to make a little-ah- _excursion_ to Ithilien while Prince Legolas is gone to visit his father. I have things to do, signs I have read- I cannot put this off longer. I will inform you of my aim and objectives once I and certain _trusted_ people reach there. This company of ours is to include myself, the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, and the remnant of our old group."

"I believe that you refer to the Grey Company, my lord."

"Amdir- how many times must I tell you to-"

"If indeed you wish for me to not call you 'lord', then please grant me leave to call you 'captain'. It is what you were, before you became king- and in my heart, you will forever remain so."

"That is admittedly better. You have leave, then, to refer to me so. As for your previous question- yes, I was referring to the Grey Company- or what is left of it."

Aragorn's face assumed a bitter smile, and Amdir looked down at his feet for a moment.

''Anything Else, my captain?"

"Yes. It is imperative that we send a message to Lord Gimli, my old friend, who now rules the Caves of Aglarond. Send a messenger to Aglarond at once, and tell him to pass the message that no matter what his duties, he must hasten to Erebor at once, and administer what is required to the _North Gate._ He will know what to do."

"Is that all, sir?"

"No- the final task is to inform Faramir of my decision and pass the order for him to take over rule of Gondor till I return. I myself will send messengers to King Thorin Stonehelm of Erebor, concerning matters of grave import. Finally, you must arrange a caravan for the Lady Arwen, who will be travelling to Arnor. I myself will join her after this task of ours is completed."

"As for all these matters, My L-"

Aragorn sent him a glare.

"-Sir, for what exact reason must you undertake this task? I believe, if they are to follow, the men will want to know."

"Then take only those who will come no matter what! For the reasoning behind this- I am afraid I am not quite at liberty to discuss them, my friend."

"Understood, sir."

Amdir bowed low, and set off at a brisk pace. Aragorn let his chin rest on his balled-up fist, lost in thought. It was only yesterday that Gwaihír the Windlord had come to him and told him the news. A Warning- from Lord Manwë, the Elder King of Arda himself. This is why the Eagle had tarried in Middle-earth, to deliver this message, before he was free to fly to Valinor.

When he was sure Amdir had gone, he bade his Royal Guards to leave his presence as well. Then, he spent a good half-hour drawing curtains over windows, and barricading himself in his chamber.

When he was completely sure that he was alone and in no danger of being seen or heard, he pulled a red cloth off the Royal Table, revealing a curious, spherical object seemingly made of Dark Glass.

It would seem unremarkable at first, but on closer inspection, an expert would have found it to be a Palantír. It was, in fact, the same Palantír owned and operated by Denethor, the former steward, before his death.

This Palantír had seemingly lost its magic, and was said to repeatedly show only the wretched image of two hands, once mighty, being burned and shriveling up, turning slowly to ash. However, Aragorn knew better- for he had given this stone to Gwaihír, who had returned it after a lengthy period of time. If Aragorn's guess was correct, the Palantír had been flown to Valinor and back.

He gripped it then, with his left arm, and looked into it. His gaze was so intense that the room itself seemed to glow around him. Still, the Palantír remained Blank and Dark, unyielding. At least it didn't show the image of Denethor burning to death.

He sighed- this would take a great deal of strength and willpower. He thought then of the Felllowship of the Ring, and all its members. He thought of Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir- and above all, of Arwen. Thinking of his wife gave him the strength he needed.

He looked again into the Palantír, willing it to bend to his will and show him the image he desired. Slowly, the Palantír started glowing with an orange, fiery light. With sudden heat, it seemed to scorch his palm, but he held it still. The orange light was now swirling greatly. He took a deep breath.

" _ **Angmar**_ _"_ said he, pushing all his strength and command into his voice. The Palantír obeyed.

)-(

The Telerin City of Alqualondë was asleep, the sun having set and the moon having risen. All was dark. However, not even the most skilled observer could point out that the Darkness did not seem- _natural._ It seemed as if the city was _swathed in darkness_ instead of it simply being dark due to the absence of strong light. Lord Mormanar had judged it absolutely perfect for shadows to hide in.

As he descended on the silent streets, with Dawn far away, he the most essential detail checked one last time- the Valar _must not know he was there._ It was quite simple- he only had to extend his aura and see if there was an annoying light at the edges, light that he could not put out. There was none- all was going according to plan.

The shadows took shape and a tall figure in Dark Armour prowled the streets. Mormanar was not one for sightseeing- ' _it was not strictly required for the mission and thus irrational'_ \- but his observant nature compelled him to notice that while some structures were complete, some were broken-down and had a distinct look as if they had been fuel for roaring fires in times past.

" _So, these Telerin Elves have kept these structures in their original condition as tribute to that day- a monument to the labours of F_ _ë_ _anor to cause strife. Fiery, passionate, idiotic… a pity that the Dark Lord cannot avail of him in this age- he would have made a fine weapon to use. A firebrand to ignite the flames of war. As for those petty Teleri-fools to hold on to the past. For surely now, they may be deprived of a past to hold on to."_

Mormanar would have chuckled darkly if he had any emotion or feeling, no matter how twisted- but his manner remained as cold and impassive as it ever was as he continued to glide through the streets.

His direction was clear. He was heading towards the largest building, a palace of sorts- right at the water's edge. It was there he would find his target.

Coming up to the structure, it seemed less like a palatial abode and more like a particularly large version of the average Telerin home, with a golden swan at the top of the dome that covered the structure instead of a roof. The Swan's tail was missing, as if hacked off. Some golden feathers appeared blackened. Some walls were also blackened. Some parts of it seemed newly built, others were not quite so new and some walls looked very ancient indeed.

Unassuming as it was, it was the dwelling of the King of Alqualondë.

Mormanar dissolved his form into the shadows and entered through a tiny gap between the huge doors. The Guards stationed outside did not even blink. There were various sentries stationed inside the 'palace', some of whom were elite members of the King's personal elite guard. Mormanar passed them all, still a shadow, heading for the servants' quarters.

Once there, he hesitated for a moment, quietly sending a mental note to his Dark Master, using all of his power to mask it so that the Valar could not sense it. A while later, an equally-masked reply came to his mind. Mormanar undid his master's enchantment to decipher:

" _You may proceed as ordered. My Dark Power rests in the minds of the Valar, fogging them and rendering them unable to sense your presence. They will know nothing, if you are quick enough. Summon the shadows without fear of discovery or appraisal, my- apprentice."_

Thus assured, Mormanar inhabited once more his shadowy armour, and raised a gauntleted hand into the night. Immediately, the little specks of the flame imperishable that burned within the sleeping elves was extinguished. _Snuffed out._ Without moan, cry, or protest, their fëar left their bodies. However, as the fëar tried to reach the Halls of Mandos, they found themselves held back. Mormanar had raised both his hands into the air now, sucking the essence of the elves in and binding the fëar to his own self. He devoured their souls, to render his own self stronger.

He had, overall, murdered ten: The two Cooks, some handmaidens and a few valets. This gave him enough power to 'ignite' his Black Blade- which, with Tuor's soul, was new and improved.

One Edge of the Dark Weapon was now serrated, but in a perfectly calculated and measured manner, so that it would not make the blade clumsier and still cut through flesh more easily. A little further upward, it had a curve in the blade, making it easier to hack off heads with a single swing. Yet further still was the tip- if it could be called a tip. The tip of Mormanar's sword now resembled a scythe's blade- sharply, cruelly curved to the right, to impale people with the greatest ease if swung from the ides.

It looked like no orc-blade, and not even like any of the more outlandish, cruel weapons Sauron may have fashioned in the forges of Angband. It looked- _elegant._ Unorthodox, but elegant. Even now, the serrated edge and the scything tip vanished as Mormanar willed it, making the dark blade resemble just an ordinary, sharp edged and perfectly angular sword. On Mormanar's second whim, the other edge became serrated, and the tip was curved the other way. This would do. A last exertion of will, and the blade, which formerly appeared _liquid,_ seemed to solidify.

Thus satisfied, Mormanar stalked forth, silently murdering the household as he went. The Most Precise stabs and slashes were employed by him, making sure to always guarantee instantaneous death so that no sound issued forth from their mouths. Oddly, only minimal amounts of blood issued, and no blood touched the floor, for as soon as they were killed, the bodies seemed to dry up and shrivel.

Finally, having killed about fifty or sixty, it was time for him to turn to the courtyard, where the guards were still awake. He did not intend to kill them silently, for the King must be woken up.

He reached the parapet, and seized the Guard looking out in front of him. The Guard was impaled in the back, and thrown down onto the ground for all the other elves to see. They looked up in shock to see the Dark Figure of Mormanar, who was unlike anything they had ever seen.

This provided him with the split second he needed to jump down and land heavily, although gracefully. The Ground shook, and the elves on the parapet who were trying to corner him were thwarted. The Guards downstairs were braced.

"Let us begin" said Mormanar, and without further talk, raised his clawed hand. The nearest guard was drawn to him by an invisible force, and was decapitated.

The other guards did not need further motivation, and charged at him. Some archers had assembled at the parapet, trying to shoot him- and all arrows bounced off his armour. Yet other elves were coming down from the parapet to fight him.

Without cry, snarl, or sound, Mormanar struck with his blade, parrying the strikes of all the elves at once. Not one sword, or knife, or spear, met with his armour. The Black Blade was oddly fizzling as it was slashed through the air, killing four in one swing. Elves fell, as their comrades rushed in front. Finally, Mormanar was surrounded.

As one, they thrust their weapons forward, when Mormanar thrust his arm into the air again. The elves simply fell down, dead.

Their comrades were too shocked to believe it. Mormanar made no move to attack. Finally, one of the elves took out a horn, and blew on it hard- it sounded a splendid note.

Cries of 'INTRUDER!' rang through the house- just what Mormanar intended.

Five short blasts issued forth now, standing for 'EXTREMELY DEADLY FOE'.

' **HE EMPLOYS SORCERY! NONE OF OUR WEAPONS HARM HIM!'**

 **' _Enough'._** Mormanar threw his blade at the elf who shouted. The elf died, and the blade flew back to his arm. Not too far away, a little higher up the isle of Eressëa, Gandalf woke with a start.

The Doors in front of them flew open, and a majestic elf with Silver hair burst forth, sword at the ready and cold fury lined in his face. It was the Ancient King of Alqualondë, Olwë.

A succession of scars and burns on his left cheek marked his otherwise perfect visage- The scars of Fëanor's torching of Alqualondë. Olwë, at that time, was not much of a warrior, and so could do little to help, and had escaped alive by the skin of his teeth. However, it was known to Mormanar that he had spent all the subsequent ages attaining a mastery over the art of sword-fighting, should another day come when his people were in danger.

Mormanar regarded his opponent, impassive as ever. A blast of what seemed like cold wind had suddenly pinned the remainder of the guards to the wall.

"Your evil ends today, servant of Morgoth!" Olwë spat.

"I am no servant of Morgoth. Neither am I evil. Let us see who ends today- we duel on skill alone." replied Mormanar calmly.

Olwë regarded him for a moment, and gave the order for his soldiers to not interfere. Instantly, the elves pinned to the wall fell down, as the wind receded.

The King of the Teleri drew his blade, and stood in stance. Mormanar took his, Black Blade pointed at the ground to his side. He had judged that Olwë would not be the first to attack, so he took the offensive.

The fist few thrusts aimed by Mormanar were not impossible to block completely, but difficult nonetheless. Still, Olwë did not break a sweat as he fluidly swung his blade to block and parry. Then, Olwë sprung his trap, and changed defence to offence, extending a little further and scoring dents in Mormanar's armour, parrying the Black Blade further each time. Finally, he drove the black sword into the ground, and pulled his own backwards for a truly powerful stab.

Mormanar saw this. This is exactly why he hadn't thrown in his best and opted to be cautious. Tightening his grip around the hilt, he dissolved the blade, and made it reappear broader than before near his chest. The tip of Olwë's sword hit the face of the Black Blade, allowing Mormanar to divert it. From then on, he unleashed a murderous combination.

Olwë, siezing the opportunity, had aimed a number of hacks, stabs and slashes at Mormanar, but the Shadow had turned and parried them all with brutal power, sending the blade a long way off and causing Olwë to tire. Again, it seemed as if Mormanar anticipated his opponent's every move, and was a step ahead, sword always ready to block. His movements were dynamic, as fluid as Olwë's, making it seem that he was executing a pre-planned manoeuvre with the King.

Olwë, beginning to grow desperate, aimed a succession of powerful blows at Mormanar's helm, but Mormanar was, as always, ready.

Each blow was parried with force, and as Olwë brought his word up again, Mormanar extended his forward, blocking the king Mid-strike. The Dark Entity then shifted his weight forward and pushed, causing the king to stumble. Then, gauntleted palm curling into a fist, he punched the King's forehead, causing him to fall down. Mormanar made no further move.

With a splitting headache, Olwë got up, only to find Mormanar assaulting him with the deadliest of strikes. The King summoned all his skill to block the strikes, but after a while, he found it- _impossible._ He was tiring. Mormanar was not.

However, there was a thing Mormanar had not counted for. Gandalf was pelting down the hills, staff and Glamdring in his hands. He needed to finish this quickly.

That moment of realisation gave Olwë time enough to drive the Black Blade to the side, and impale Mormanar in the chest. The blade sank deep.

Mormanar gave only the slightest snarl of pain, before pivoting around spectacularly, driving the sword out of his armour, reverse-gripping his own blade, trapping Olwë's in his armoured hand and then driving his blade back as fast as he could. All in one single, swift movement.

Olwë stared blankly at his own chest, which had been pierced by Mormanar's blade despite the armour he wore. There was no blood. The Blade did not burst out of his back. He felt- cold.

Mormanar then took his second hand, and slowly removed his mask. The terrible witch-light of his haunting green eyes seemed to fill the whole of Olwë's body. A second later, _Olwë had no body. A few ashes were flying around in the wind._

The elves were shocked, as the many dents and one large gap in Mormanar's armour closed up and were mended in an instant. The next instant, a blast of the same dark shadow pinned the elves against the wall, knocking some unconscious. Gandalf was just outside now.

Mormanar looked at the carnage he had created, elves slumped on the ground- A Job Well Done. He dissolved his form again, and the shadow flew out of a crack in the wall.

Silence.

A few seconds later, a strange spell was uttered, and the doors burst open again, flying off their hinges. Gandalf had come.

The Maia radiated with power as he surveyed the scene. A divine light was emanating from him. He said nothing, instead looking at the elves inquisitively. No one spoke.

"What happened? Where is Lord Olwë?" he asked finally. One of the elves opened his mouth, but said nothing. No words came out. Finally, another spoke up.

"My Lord Mithrandir- Olórin- the King is..."

"Speak!"

"The King is... _gone_."

"What do you mean? Gone? He can't be!"

The Elf merely shook his head, and said no more.

Gandalf shook his head, raised his voice, and yelled:

"Lord Mânawenûz! My Lord! Disaster!"

There was a bright flash of Light, and Gandalf's lord appeared next to him.

"What happened, Olórin? Speak, my Child."

"A catastrophe has occurred, my lord."

Manwë surveyed the scene, his eyes seeing through the walls. A lot of elves had been murdered, and Olwë was nowhere to be seen.

"It is as I feared, then."

"My Lord?"

"Olórin- I believe you have a right to know. Tuor is missing. Olwë is also missing. Whether they have been Slain, I know not. Yet- I do know that a shadow has descended upon Valinor."


	7. The Last Numenorean

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Comedy Monarchy, a faithful reviewer for all my chapters. Your reviews have greatly amused and intrigued me, and I must ask you, from where did you get such an excellent talent for Telepathy?**

 **For I** _ **am**_ **using content from 'The New Shadow', chiefly one character- Herumor, the Black Lord. In 'The New Shadow', Herumor is shown as an evil man born in the Early Fourth Age, and the chief evil of Middle-earth during the reign of Eldarion, son of Aragorn. He established an evil cult in Gondor known as the 'Dark Tree', set on the worship of Melkor and even Sauron, defying the King's principles, outliving Aragorn and lasting well into the reign of Eldarion. How he met his end is not written.**

 **However, one may find that there is** _ **another**_ **Herumor in the Legends of Tolkien- a Black N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean who served Sauron in the second age. He is quoted to have become a mighty lord along with another, Fuinur.**

' _ **For in the days of the sojourn of Sauron in that land [N**_ _ **ú**_ _ **m**_ _ **e**_ _ **nor] the hearts of well-nigh all its people had been turned to darkness. Therefore many of those who sailed east in that time and made fortresses and dwellings upon the coast were already bent to his will, and they served him still gladly in Middle-earth. But because of the power of Gil-Galad these renegades, lords both mighty and evil, for the most took up their abodes in lands far away; yet two there were, Herumor and Fuinur, who rose to power among the Haradrim, a great and cruel people that dwelt in the wide lands south of Mordor beyond the plains of the Anduin'.**_ **– J.R.R. Tolkien,** _ **'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'**_ **, 'The Silmarillion'.**

 **For the purposes of this story, I have combined the two Herumors into one single character, meaning that the Herumor of the Second Age is the same as the Herumor of the Fourth. 'Fuinur', in this story, is his brother, who was killed in the Battle of Dagorlad, prompting Herumor to take his name as another one of his own.**

 **He is the last N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean lord, his life fading, clinging desperately to the last of the sorcery that keeps him alive. Of late, the black bonds of the dark sorcery are fading, without Sauron, his lord, to sustain them. However, in no way is he decrepit, and ready to put up a tremendous fight, managing the remnant of evil in Middle-earth, with the dark intent of exacting a terrible revenge on King Aragorn…**

 **And by the way, there is a timeskip in this chapter, 10 years to be exact. Please don't mind the dialogue. Why some of it is archaic and the rest modern will be explained later.**

 **Chapter 6: The Last N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean**

Herumor was pained. Suffering.

 _He could see a gleaming white tower. A white tree shone as a star upon its top level. Sauron wanted him, needed him to take this city. It was the Dark Lord's last will, and would be his last achievement._

 _He felt the cracks open in the wide field in front of the tower. Fissures opened forth, a baleful frost issuing from them, spurring forward and spreading as if a twisted, cold flame. The ice formed walls around him, leaving only a narrow path to the city. He hacked men apart, both soldiers of the White city and his own guard. He killed all those in his path to the tower._

 _And then he saw him- the King. He was looking down from the topmost balcony, a look of mocking scorn upon his face. He was completely unconcerned. He had destroyed Sauron. And Herumor would kill him for it. The King now spoke._

" _Behold, thou mangy lord of rats, thy power falls as it was meant to. Thou canst do naught. Thou art naught. Thou art a fly before my blazing glory, as was thy fallen, delusional master. None may stand against me- for this is how it was meant to be. This is the design of Ilúvatar. I pray thee, try thy hardest and prove me wrong."_

 _Herumor was going to prove him wrong, as he rushed in his dark rage and climbed the steps of the many levels of the city… but as he was, his sorcery broke. He began to age rapidly, wrinkles and lines appearing, suddenly his face draining of all colour as it melted apart into nothingness, his run slowed to a walk and then finally stymied as his body disintegrated into ash… and there he was, the King, choosing to kill him rather than let him fade, striking the final blow with Andúril- it cleaved cleanly through his chest… There was no blood…_

Herumor woke with a start, the bitter taste of bile coming to his throat. It had been another nightmare. For all the years of this age, he had never slept without nightmares. This particular one, recurring constantly, had been the most frequent one of late. Dimly aware of the aching pain in his creaking joints, the aged Black Núménorean got up out of his cold, hard bed.

Nightmares were no strangers to Herumor. He constantly kept having them, especially during the Third Age, after Sauron's defeat at the hands of the Last Alliance. Only for a very short while, merely fifty years, had he managed to get proper dreamless sleep. Those were the last years of the Third Age, when Lord Sauron had regained much of his power.

Waking up finally in earnest, he glanced out of the small opening in the rock wall of his 'chamber' in the cave. The sky was still dark. He examined his current quarters- more like an enclosed cul-de-sac –and cautiously crept out into the cave the last of the Servants of Sauron were now inhabiting.

It was not quite as much a cave as it was a cavern, and a particularly large one at that. It was tucked away in a dark corner of Rhûn, one of the only safe places where the remnant of the Order of the Eye could remain without being hunted by the new King. How he loathed that King.

He surveyed the large cavern, filled with sleeping inhabitants - Men, divided into 'new' recruits and Ancient Núménoreans, who were fading and dying out fast. There was an enclosed space where a few trolls were chained up, and that was it. No orcs.

Herumor had indeed tried to stir up the Orcs and Uruks once again, but they had whimpered and run away at his call. No Orc had answered the summons of the Lord of the Order of the Eye. Their time was over. Herumor guessed that they would go to their Dark Holes in the mountains and slowly die out, of starvation and lack of breeding, finally becoming part of the jagged rock themselves.

Most of the cave's inhabitants were asleep, some without dreams and the rest tormented by the same Dark Nightmares. Some remained awake, weapons at the ready, alert and waiting to rouse all should they be attacked. Others simply lay awake, unable to sleep. They espied Herumor, and raised their hands, giving him a respectful, albeit sleepy and tired salute.

Herumor let the matter of sleepiness pass, instead acknowledging the salute and walking with a slow but purposeful gait towards the mouth of the cavern. Many twisted passages he had to take, many hidden and concealed passages, some produced by nature and others man-made to confuse and stall attackers. His body and legs ached in protest at the exertion, but Herumor was used to pain. He would not let it slow him down. So he walked with the same purpose, taking care to take the correct path, which was as twisted as possible, and reached the mouth of the cave.

One of the reasons this particular cave was chosen was due to the complex natural structure of the mouth. The rock walls of the cave extended forth as two projecting walls, concealing the entrance to the mouth. It was quite possible to position two hidden sentries near the two extensions, so that they could see and not be seen. All in all, the mouth was rather well concealed, and the extensions also provided protection against arrows and catapults.

The ancient Núménorean surveyed the structure once again, before walking forth and hailing one of the sentries. It was Abâragath, his old friend and fellow Black Núménorean.

Abâragath was, in fact, a descendent of Black Núménoreans, kept alive by the same dark sorcery. His life was fast fading as well, but all Black Núménoreans and long-lived men within the remnant of Sauron's forces had sworn a dark oath to cling onto life, using whatever means they could, until the Heir of Isildur's death.

Herumor, in fact, held a dark secret himself- He knew the last wishes of the Dark Lord Sauron himself. His master had ordered, as a last wish, that Herumor bring out Aragorn's death. Herumor had, after Sauron's fall, perpetuated this as a rumour, and when questioned had said that it would be a fitting eulogy for the Dark Lord, but had never told anyone the truth about it. He intended to do so now, to his old comrade.

He stepped out of the shadows, and Abâragath whirled around, one point of his three-pronged spear pointed at Herumor's chest. Long age had clearly not dulled his excellent reflexes. For Herumor's part, his own sharp, cruel knife was positioned directly in front of Abâragath's throat. The two men regarded each other, and after observing each other's countenance, dropped their weapons at the same moment. They saluted each other in the manner of Sauron's servants, but unexpectedly, Abâragath reached forward with one arm and clasped it around Herumor in a swift embrace.

"Well, well, old comrade- thou art too benign for thy own good. The lord Thû would have punished thee indeed if thou hadst embraced me in front of his All-seeing eye." said Herumor.

"Thou canst not be quite that sure, for it was within my power to stab thee with a concealed dagger while mine arm was at thy back." replied Abâragath, a shadow of a smile emerging on his face.

"Thou wert always steadfast in thy purpose, old comrade" -said Herumor with a sigh- "and although The Dark Master would have me think otherwise, I never suspected thee of betrayal in all thy long years. I had my suspicions, no doubt- but time and again, thou hast demonstrated that thou wouldst never stray from our Lord's side- and neither wouldst thou from mine."

Abâragath smiled in earnest this time. It was a sad thing, seeing the aged and dark, cruel man attempting to summon a true smile to his scarred, weary features. Herumor would have felt extremely sorry had he allowed himself to feel such emotions.

"That is precisely why, comrade mine, that I am come to relieve thee. Assured of thy loyalty that I am, I have a matter of grave import to tell thee. The Dark Master…"

"Wait."

"What is this thou dost say?"

"Look-thee here, Herumor. Our new recruit- he hath fallen to the temptation of sleep."

Abâragath pointed to one of their new recruits, a young Haradrim man. He was the second sentry. He had, indeed, been asleep for quite some time, and Abâragath, with his keen eye, had seen him thus and was waiting to tell Herumor as soon as he came.

Herumor sighed again. Had Sauron been here, the general procedure would be to instantly slit the man's throat. Neglecting duty was _simply not tolerated,_ especially on a duty as vital as keeping a lookout for enemies. Herumor looked down for a moment, and with a determined expression, drew his knife. He was new, and thus expendable. Did he want to kill him, though? Wouldn't that be wasteful? They did not have many men…

 _Sauron was not here. Herumor was commander, not Sauron. However, it was Sauron they served, was it not? It was the Dark Lord's will they had made their mission to carry out._

Sighing one last time, Herumor bent down, and gripped the man very firmly by his arm. He should at least wake up before the knife did its work. The man awoke with a start, and gave a frightened squeal on seeing the cruel point of the knife and the steely, helmeted face of Herumor, who cleared his throat and spoke in the man's local Haradrim dialect. The tone came out harsh and the words disjointed, but he could be understood.

"Scream no. One sound escape throat and I show you the meaning of pain…" snarled Herumor.

The man gave a frightened gasp and was silent. Herumor then made his decision where to strike.

The cruel tip of the knife found the man's soft flesh, carving a bloody pattern on the skin. It was forearm, not the throat. The man silently breathed a sigh of relief. The pain, however, was a lot, the stab of it stinging against his skin. He, however, took care not to produce a single sound.

Herumor finished quickly. He had carved the symbol of the Eye of Sauron onto the man's forearm. To his credit, he made a quick job of it and had not made any deep cuts at all. Seeing that the man made no sound, he was well-pleased. He brought out a few bandages he had stuffed in the folds of his robe, and properly patched him up. Finally, he rummaged in his robe and found what he was looking for. It was a herb of some kind, which he crushed and applied on the wound, before bandaging it up.

The man looked completely startled that Herumor appropriately healed his wound after he had cut into his skin. Herumor gave a wry grimace, before clearing his throat and attempting to speak in the man's local Haradrim dialect. The tone came out harsh and the words disjointed, but he could be understood.

"Forgive me" he said, causing the man to almost jump, "had be done. Standard procedure for those fail in duty. Did well you, son. Herumor pleased."

The young man looked startled, but quickly nodded his head. One thing, however, remained unasked.

"What… what is that herb? The mysterious herb?"

"This?" asked Herumor, bringing what was left of it out. The man nodded.

"This _Athelas._ Good herb, very good. Help heal many hurts and injuries. Very useful herb, _Athelas."_

The Man was surprised, and wished to ask more, but at Herumor's stern glance, immediately got up and resumed his watch. Herumor then turned to Abâragath.

Contrary to the habit of many of the Servants of Sauron, Herumor always carried a small amount of fresh Athelas with him wherever he went. It was not 'just a weed', as many deemed it, but a healing herb that was extremely potent and useful.

Among the higher servants of Sauron, it was known that Sauron himself, for some reason, harboured an intense hatred for the herb. Its possession was akin to treason among his ranks, and any carrier was found guilty and killed. Thus, Herumor had kept it a secret for years, telling only Abâragath, and that too after the Dark Lord's end.

"Thy possession of this herb would seem treasonous to some, Herumor. The Dark Master would have thee executed."

"Good fortune, then, that He is not here. Thou findest that 'tis verily a useful herb, and unlike our master, I find no qualm in healing one in need. If thou mindest not, the reason I am come is to tell thee this: that…"

"Hush!"

For Abâragath had just seen a glimmer of white in the distance. Around the bend of the rock wall that enclosed the sole path to their cavern, he had caught the glint of light reflected by a Soldier's Shield. The steady sound of marching came along behind them, and Herumor found that it was quite a large army indeed that made its way toward their cavern.

They were quite-a-ways away from the point where they stood sentry, and could not see them, yet Herumor managed to spot the gleaming blue-and-white banner that they bore. _Dol Amroth's Banner._

An army from Dol Amroth was come, and a very large and elite one at that. Abâragath stood stoic at his spot, scything-spear at the ready, while Herumor silently slinked back into the shadows.

It was a simple mechanism that he wished to find, a horn that created a low, thrumming noise that was enough to waken his own soldiers from sleep, while not being heard by those approaching. Making his way through the passages, he found it at last, hidden away in a corner, and blew a long note.

The low sound filled the cave, and reverberated off its walls, waking its Inhabitants.

" _Nagh'rafákth! Mazauk kul-tob! Az-tul, Az-tul, AZ-TUL_!" roared Herumor, waking those who had not yet woken up, and bringing alertness to their sleepy expressions. Battle awaited.

Each one of the Servants of Sauron, from Young Man to Black Núménorean, sprang to their feet and snatched up their individual weapons. There were dark, serrated swords, cruelly-tipped spears, dangerous scythes, and even the odd Morningstar, and each weapon found the hand of its owner in the rush.

" _PUZGAT!'_ shouted Herumor, once again in Black Speech, to claim everyone's attention. The whole of the Order of the Servants of Sauron fell silent. Herumor spoke calmly, in low tones:

"You will all follow me to the entrance of the cavern. Battle cannot be avoided, but I want to ensure as few losses as possible. Leave the Trolls out of this, as they may cause havoc upon our own lines. Archers will follow me to the vantage points on the top of the two protruding front walls, as they will make fine spots to pick targets. Infantry, lie in reserve. Do not charge out. Great warriors, slayers and berserkers will go up to the front and stand alongside Capt. Abâragath, and wait for orders. Knights and Cavalry, charge out using the secret entrance to the east, and take the long route to their back lines. Assassins, we have no need of your services."

These orders were spoken out in every dialect, Haradrim, Rhûnic or otherwise, until Herumor had made them clear to all. Archers went off, using the winding passageways to find their way to the front, and travelling in groups to make sure none got lost.

The Great Dark Warriors, descendants of Núménoreans, of which there were few, had hurried off immediately, as they knew most local dialects of the east, making it so that the orders did not have to be repeated in Adûnaic.

Herumor, checking that things had been done as ordered, took some kindling along with him, and fetched two weapons- A large but elegantly-curved scimitar, which he wielded, and a terrible, dark mace, a gift from Sauron himself, which was strapped across his back. Herumor knew he did not have the strength to wield it, but he would carry it forever, as a token of his eternal service to the Dark Lord.

As he hurried along the passageways, he heard the thrumming of the Dol Amroth Army's marching come to a stop. He heard Abâragath exchange a few words with an unfamiliar voice, perhaps that of the opposing general.

"Flagit matûrz, lat dûmp katu-lá!" came Abâragath's cry, followed by a brutal slicing sound, after which came a faint _squelch._ The person he was talking to, Herumor surmised, had been decapitated. He ran faster. The Mortals were silent, for a moment.

Abâragath took that moment to give another, wordless cry, and then swung his triple-pointed spear at every other messenger that had come to the cavern's mouth. The strikes were vicious, yet due to years of practice, precise, and they all fell dead. From there on, the battle began.

At that precise moment, the black-robed archers of Herumor's forces emerged from the shadows, one group on each vantage point. A single group immediately took their arrows, and began firing upon the Amroth infantry lines, taking care to shoot at only the lightly-armoured infantry. The archers of the second group had each brought a log along with them, which they arranged into a pile and kindled. They gathered around the burning pile, setting fire to the tips of their arrows while they fired at the heavily-armoured infantry and cavalry. Their rate of fire was slow, but they burned a great many of the elite troops in the process.

Meanwhile, the Great Warriors of the dark army had assembled behind Abâragath, who was in a murderous frenzy, killing all in sight. After hacking off a few more heads, he managed to shout out in Adûnaic:

"Brothers, battle awaits ye! Charge! Kill all in Sight!"

"As thou say'st, captain" they answered, and charged into the Dol Amroth ranks, swinging their swords, maces and scythes, those wielding Morningstars being the most effective, as they scattered the ranks.

Finally, Herumor made his way out, and to all his forces, shouted the command:

"Dûmpatul Burzum-ishi! AZ-TUL!"

It was working marvellously. They were crushing the first infantry lines, with very few casualties, namely a few archers and a berserker or two.

Herumor himself joined the fray, swinging his scimitar with a dark skill, concentrating all his skill into the battle. He was a good leader, and always led by example. One of the reasons why his men admired and obeyed him, and stuck with him on his seemingly-impossible quest after the fall of Sauron, was that he never asked anyone to do what he was not willing or able to do himself.

The Black Núménorean looked on proudly. They were slaughtering their foes. An almost beatific expression came to his scarred face- _and then he saw him._

Dol Amroth's General was, in fact, Prince Imrahil himself. The army was not just large, but massive, with the remnant coming up behind the prince, on his resplendent white steed. It was entirely elite, comprised of- _Gondor Tower Guards?!_

Crews were bringing up contraptions which Herumor recognised as Ballistae. They had the hammer and anvil of the dwarves flying up as their banner, with their ammunition being the extremely powerful steel bolts the dwarves of Aglarond had provided them with. Catapults with flaming stones from the Iron Hills were brought up as well.

Finally, deciding to call forth his most powerful weapon, Imrahil drew out a special, gold-rimmed horn from his robes, and blew.

Right above the cavern, and on either flank of Herumor's army, came Dol Amroth's pride; the very best they had to offer- The Elite Swan-knights.

Herumor ground his teeth, and ordered his archers to stop firing. He, too, had a last gambit to play if things went south. There was no doubt about it- It would be a battle to the death.

So focused were they that either commander failed to notice a most unnatural flash of thick, purple lightning in the distance.

Here was a nice battle, so here came that most enthusiastic harbinger of thunderous doom. He could not resist it. He hoped his master wouldn't mind.

"Well, let's get down to it, then, eh? Shall we?" he asked his spectral steed, eliciting an odd, ghostly whinny. He took this for affirmation.

"Jolly Good!" exclaimed the Storm Knight, and charged forth.

 **Ooh! Cliffie! Sorry for the long time taken to update, but when you're above 40, are not a particularly creative writer, hate formatting, are fighting a heated battle with your spell-checker and have to write Black Speech, things tend to take a lot of time.**

 **If you've been reading and following the story so far, but haven't reviewed, then _THIS IS THE TIME YOU REVIEW, LURKERS, OKAY?_ Writing Fanfics isn't exactly my top priority, and I do this for enjoyment (and reviews). Now, let's explain the dialogue situation-**

 **Most of you might be wondering why the Elves, Valar, and even Mormanar and the Dark Lord use modern language, and why Herumor and co. do not. I have quite a headcanon about this:**

 **I thought that the Valar, being open to change and benevolent and blah blah blah would be considerate enough to choose to learn the simplified forms of language so that they can render conversation with Elves and others easier.**

 **I quite hate the perception of the Valar as stuck-up, stuffy, snobbish old gods whose defining virtue is their power and grandeur, and thus I have elected to make them benevolent, open-minded and willing to speak others' languages so as to allow free conversation; therefore, they speak in simplified or modern dialects.**

 **Morgoth, on the other hand, was really quite stuck-up and liked to show off his flair and appear grand; therefore, he speaks in either Valarin or the most ancient forms of Quenya and other Elvish languages. Hence, the Valar use 'you' whereas Morgoth would use 'thou'.**

 **I would imagine that Sauron would follow in his master's steps and continue to use 'thou', and the cycle would continue with his servant Herumor, who chooses to speak in archaic Adûnaic or ancient Quenya. Hence, this is illustrated by using 'thou, thee, etc."**

 **Proof of the above can be found in The Lord of The Rings, since Gandalf uses modern speech, whereas the Witch-king uses 'Thou', as in "Thou fool".**

 **Now, I seem to have forgotten to write translations…**

 **Hír Nin: (Sindarin) My Lord**

 **Tangado Haid: (Sindarin) Make Firm the Lines!**

 **Leithio i philinn: (Sindarin) Let fly the arrows!**

 **Abâragath: (Adûnaic) Mighty Shadow**

 **Herumor: (Quenya) Black Lord**

 **Mormanar: (Quenya) May be considered 'Doom and Darkness' or 'Dark Doom'. Please note the Quenya word 'morë' (black/ dark as in colour) is not used, and the prefix is 'mor', darkness in the abstract sense.**

 **O Menel Aglar Elenath: (Sindarin) The Glory of the Starry Host!**

 **Nagh'rafákth! Mazauk kul-tob! Az-tul, Az-tul, AZ-TUL: (Black Speech) Rise! War is here! Kill Them, Kill Them, KILL THEM!**

 **PUZGAT: (Black Speech) Stop!**

 **Flagit matûrz, lat dûmp katu-lá: (Black Speech) Foolish Mortal, thy doom is here!**

 **Dûmpatul Burzum-ishi! AZ-TUL! : (Black Speech) Doom them into Darkness! Kill Them!**

 **For this story, I have chosen to use the neo-black speech available from the LandofShadow website. I quite like it- there are various synonyms for my two most favourite abstract ideas- Doom and Darkness. Obviously.**


	8. Light, Shadow and Tyrannous Storm

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Thanks to Toraach, for his/her multiple reviews. I only know but a smattering of Polish, picked up during my short little trip there, but it is hopefully enough to thank you- Wielkie dzi** **ę** **ki za twoje wsparcie. For your information, 'Kurvanog' means F** **Ɵ** **rr'** **ňĭkhætûr. Hopefully it is disguised enough.**

 **As for your last review, though, I don't think you quite understood the last chapter- Herumor is a dying man, yes, but anything but sad or decrepit. The Servants of Sauron do not 'Dress as others' as you said, and I don't think I wrote anything of the sort. Besides, I intended to write that there were 'only men' and no orcs, but that didn't mean they are just a 'few survivors'. Herumor has a fully-fledged dark army under his command, is a marvellous strategist, and also has a strategic advantage since the cavern is a highly defensible chokepoint. Besides, as I mentioned, he also has a 'last gambit' to play… That means he has forces hidden somewhere… Hence, he is able to challenge Imrahil.**

 **I do apologize if the chapter seemed crappy, as I was feeling a bit off- and please realize that I write this in 15-minute snippets of time and therefore I may forget matters of continuity, and therefore would appreciate it if I was to be warned by PM.**

 **As for why I am using 'Mormanar' and not 'Morambar', I had a lengthy discussion with a Quenya-expert friend of mine. He said that Tolkien never used the word** _ **fate**_ **, and instead used** _ **doom.**_ **'Ambar' is a closer word to 'Doom' as in 'fate' or 'final end'. I also find it overused, and associated with various historical occurrences, for eg. Ambar Eldaron, Ambar Fëanorion, etc.**

' **Manar', on the other hand, is closer to the common man's interpretation of Doom, and is associated with swift death and darkness. Mormanar is in no way a controller of fate, but is indeed a harbinger of death and darkness- hence my preference for 'Manar' over 'Ambar'.**

 **Thanks to Comedy Monarchy for yet another review- since you were asking about the whereabouts of the Storm Knight, here he is. I see you have taken quite a liking to him, and I must admit, he is fun to write- which, unfortunately, cannot be said for anything else in this fic.**

 **Je suis désolé for the cliffhangers- but now that I have enough reviews to convince myself to drag along, let's continue with the chapter…**

 **Chapter 7: Light, Shadow and Tyrannous Storm**

" _ **Lumpkrut!"**_ shouted Herumor, ordering his warriors to fall back. He feared to use Adûnaic lest Imrahil turn out to be a scholar of the same. The Prince, it seemed, had outsmarted him, the small vanguard force a necessary sacrifice to properly deploy his ballistae and catapults on the hills. Still, the cavern was a highly defensible position- they would kill many in the winding, narrow passageways, and yet more would get lost. If Imrahil attempted to assault the army in the cave itself, Herumor could possibly outlast him. However, that was not what the Prince intended.

He seemed content to merely lie back for now, ordering his own front line to retreat while Herumor's warriors fell back. The Swan-knights were at the ready, waiting to trample the deliciously exposed elite archers in front of them. The archers, not wanting to trigger a charge, made no move. Three more groups of Swan-knights emerged- two large ones on the cave's flanks, positioned to encircle Herumor's army, causing the Black Númenórean to be thankful that he had possessed the foresight to not have had his forces march out.

The last, smallest group was found forming a protective ring around Imrahil, himself a former Swan-knight. Even as prince and official ruler of Dol-Amroth, he led from the front and remained their captain. These Knights were his bodyguard, then- while the others wore armour of silver and plated steel, their armour was pure gold. They carried double-bladed halberds instead of lances, and had their skills honed to perfection after years of training.

The two commanders merely surveyed each other's armies, formulating new tactics in their minds, when a most strange occurrence took place. A massive eagle, feathers golden and resplendent against the still-rising sun, shot out of the blue of the sky from somewhere, and made a graceful, perfect landing right next to the Prince. It seemed to raise its beak to his ear, and it looked as if the Prince was having an altercation with the Mighty creature. Herumor couldn't quite tell what they were talking about, and made no move.

Finally, the Prince seemed to nod slowly, and went over to the catapult crews, mumbling some order. Herumor knew he intended to re-start the battle without warning, and if there was one thing he had learned from Sauron- it was always to initiate attack.

" _ **Farghat-gukh!"**_ he commanded his archers, who at once deliberately jumped off the edge and did a somersaulting leap to land on the ground. He had trained them well. However, Imrahil had also trained his Swan-knights well, and merely a second after the archers jumped, they charged, skewering those who had been late to jump over their lances. Some of the archers made a perfect landing on the ground, while some tumbled down, possibly breaking a few bones.

The momentum of the Swan-knights carried them off the roof of the cave, and riders and horses all seemed to gracefully _glide_ down to the ground from the height to the ground, and the only indication as to it not having been a glide was their heavy landing. With yet more skill, they somehow still managed to urge their steeds forward, and with overwhelming momentum charged into the backs of the great Númenórean warriors, killing four. Herumor, at the loss of his comrades, silently cursed them to the Void- but here they were, somehow having managed to turn about, and were in the process of mowing down the archers who had been slow to get up!

And somehow, with almost _unnatural_ control over their white steeds, they turned around again and were rushing back to their lines without the pike-guards Herumor had stationed unable to lay a scratch on them. Ridiculous.

Imrahil, Herumor decided, was a most accomplished disciplinarian. It also turned out that he was the type of shrewd, conservative commander who likes to destroy an enemy by frustration while ensuring most of his own troops make it out alive- exactly the kind of opposition Herumor hated, despised, and found _thoroughly annoying._

Even now, the dwarven catapults that had been given to them were firing an odd type of projectile at the walls of the cavern. Normally, even flaming shots would not have an impact on the unyielding stone, but these projectiles _exploded upon contact,_ sending tremors across the whole cave. It was of a kind Herumor had never seen before. He had heard tell of it- an odd type of Blasting-fire the dwarves called Flash-flames- but had never seen it in action.

The catapults fired a constant barrage of flash-flames at the walls, while the ballistae took pot-shots at Herumor's warriors, who scrambled, in the small opening, to find a place to dodge. And lo! The impregnable cavern-wall had already been brought down.

" _One exit blocked"_ thought Herumor grimly, as the catapults resumed firing on another section of the cave's walls. He had two choices- either to bring his infantry out before the cave collapsed on them, as it seemed was going to happen, or to wait, and hope that the Catapults ran out of ammunition. He decided on the latter- 'Control what you can control' thought he.

" _ **Lût! LÛTTTT!"**_ he roared, loudly enough for an aide, who was inside the cave, to hear and blow the horn. Immediately, the Servants of Sauron rushed to comply. Herumor then advanced his front line a little, just outside the range of the Dol Amroth archers, and asked them to stay in a loose formation so as to avoid the ballista bolts.

Imrahil took up the challenge. He saw Herumor manoeuvring to avoid his artillery, and decided to irrevocably commit.

" **Gentlemen- let this be the hour when we charge forth. Let this be the hour when we liberate these lands from the taint of darkness. Let this be the end of the Servants of Sauron. FORWARD, MY BROTHERS, AND ON TO VICTORY!"** roared Imrahil, and blew his horn. As one, he and the Swan-knights charged downhill, ready to annihilate Herumor's forces. The Tower Guard that had accompanied them stood forward and covered their flanks in case Herumor chose to launch a counterattack, looking truly glorious in their mighty splendour. They charged forth like the horse-lords of the Rohirrim, the Swan-knights, with their marvellous skill, putting any Rohirric cavalry regiment (save King Éomer's Royal Guard) to shame.

However, Herumor would not give up so easily. As his old friend, Abâragath stood grimly in front of him, bracing for their charge, he spoke up suddenly:

"Wouldst thou Agree, friend of old? Wouldst thou agree that this be the hour when I summon forth doom?"

Abâragath new full well that Dol Amroth would obliterate their forces in a matter of minutes if they did not, so they had no choice. It had to be done- he gave a curt nod.

With a truly evil smile forming on his face, Herumor raised his voice.

" **UNLEASH THE MORGÛL KNIGHTS!** "

The Storm Knight, who was hidden in the background, chuckled to himself. He knew all too well what was to happen, the Morgûl Knights being the reason he came here. He had not quite managed to locate Herumor's regiments yet, but had sensed their presence from afar. Therefore, they were not under his control-yet. In his own words, his 'most Grandiloquent' master had seized hold of his own mind at the last moment, forcing him and his ghostly steed to seek shelter behind this rock. Although the Storm Knight was all for charging straight into the Dol Amroth Ranks at once, his master had said " **NOW IS NOT THE TIME, YOU IMPETUTOUS FOOL!"** and had stopped him.

Both the Storm Knight and Herumor watched with equal satisfaction, as the Morgûl Knights, who had been hiding further back on each flank, letting the Swan-knights come in front of them, charged out in all their dark majesty and took their enemies completely by surprise. Herumor was satisfied- he had managed to ambush the ambushers.

The Swan-knights, great fighters as they were, were no match for the sorcery-wielding Morgûl Knights, some of whom were neither living nor dead, and never tired. These knights wielded a scimitar in one hand and a very sinister, curved halberd in the other, guiding their horses forward by extending their mind and using sheer willpower to steer their mounts.

However, due to the exemplary fighting skill of the Knights of the Silver Swan, it became evident that it would take the Morgûl Knights a long time to kill them. It seemed as if the Swan-knights had realised they could not best their dark foes after five off their number fell, and decided to fight in a conservative manner, riding down and killing any other troops that came in their way while doggedly defending against the Morgûl Knights.

Herumor did not wish for his best forces to remain tied up. He wished for them to quickly murder their adversaries and move on to kill the catapult crews, which would stop them wreaking havoc on the rest of his army. Even now, as he watched, the Tower Guards were encircling the artillery to protect the crews. Melkor Almighty, how he hated the canny Imrahil!

The Swan-knights, seeing the Tower Guard in a proper defensive location, finally disengaged, and both groups pulled out and raced back to their lines, the Morgûl Knights in hot pursuit. However, the white steeds of the Silver Swan were swifter than the Dark ones of Morgûl, and the Morgûl Knights soon came up on the enemy lines, the Swan-knights having escaped. Herumor ordered them back, as it would be risky for the Morgûl Knights to engage the Tower Guard, whose long pikes would be instrumental in killing their mounts.

There was no option left. Herumor would not allow Imrahil's Catapults to pelt him to death. He would charge, and go down fighting. Raising his dark scimitar into the air, he shouted:

" **Servants of Sauron, of Melkor! Rise, rise and fight! We may die to-day, but know that we die fighting! On to slaughter! On to glory! Today, we doom the men of Gondor! LET THEIR BLOOD WASH THE FURROWS OF THESE FIELDS! CHAAAAARRRRGE!"**

Abâragath gave a wordless war-cry of his own, and was the first to advance uphill. Herumor was right behind him, his men following their leader. Infantry, archers and warriors all charged forth to meet their foe. A rain of arrows came down as they entered firing range, but Herumor did not care. Another hail poured forth, killing quite a few, yet he did not care. He would destroy his foes tonight. He looked in front, saw Abâragath jump into the air and pierce the heart of the unlucky soldier in his way with his three-pointed spear, and leaped himself, slashing his scimitar through the air and sweeping two heads off.

The Glory of it was irresistible for the Storm Knight. This was perfect. He should think up a war cry.

" **DYAAAH, FLIBBERTIGIBBET!"** he shouted, and summoned forth the customary lightning bolts to obliterate the enemy lines (Whether Imrahil's or Herumor's he did not know or care) and charged straight in. Dark Bolts stormed off his deadly halberd, some stunning random targets, with a few bolts outright killing the unfortunate, as he slashed it from side to side, killing many from both forces. He pointed his halberd at the sky, and aimed for the eagle which had come before and was now returning. The Halberd sped forth like a thunderbolt as it had when aimed at Thranduil, and the Eagle was forced to use all the skills of flight it had learned to dodge it. The Storm Knight made his weapon follow it for a while, before getting bored of being poked from all sides and summoning it back. This time, it singed many of the Eagle's feathers as it was once again forced to dodge. It circled lower, as if in discomfort.

"What in Eru's name is that thing?!" said Imrahil, completely incredulous, as the Storm Knight, with his halberd back, continued his merry slaughter.

Herumor also paid thought to the spectral Knight, but his mind was more absorbed in the ebb and flow of the battle to keep watching him. He saw that the Knight was killing both his and Dol Amroth's forces, and had already decided what to do with him- he would deal with him at the end of the battle. For now, he needed to finish Dol Amroth.

The Silver Stars, for that was the name of Imrahil's royal guard, charged forth to engage Herumor's lines, but the Storm Knight said "Giddy up, Winifred" to his spectral horse, which gave another ghostly neigh and pulled out, charging into the Prince's guard.

The Morgûl Knights saw their opportunity, and two groups charged into the backs of the engaged Swan-knights, and the third one made for the artillery groups. Although the Catapults were now near-useless, the ballistae were still wreaking havoc. Swiftly, they charged through, killing off the crews.

"Whoof, ye fellers are tough!" panted the Storm Knight, as the Prince's guard encircled him and fought tooth and nail. They were laying many scratches into his oh-so-shiny armour, which he worked hard to polish, and no matter how many thunderbolts he summoned from the sky, they swerved around and dodged them. He had never bothered to work on his aim and his control of his power anyway, and so resorted to summoning small bolts out of his halberd instead. That seemed to work a bit better, as it stunned a few so that he could target others. Soon they were falling to his vicious strikes.

"What wouldst thou make of this, brother?" Abâragath asked Herumor in the midst of the chaos. All strategy had been forgotten due to the Storm Knight's arrival, and both sides were simply fighting and brawling to the death.

"All that I can surmise is that now, wits have no role in this battle. We fight, fight to the last man. To the death. If thou wouldst need a cause, all that I can say is" –Herumor sighed- "For Sauron."

"For Sauron!" agreed Abâragath, but as he reared up to charge with renewed ferocity, it became clear to Herumor that he would never charge again. Not after the deadly, massive ballista bolt had pierced his heart and carried him a full hundred yards over the hill and back across the battlefield.

Herumor could never imagine the grief that filled him now. _He had not even had the time to say farewell. It was all- gone. Abâragath's fire, passionate and ever-burning, had simply been snuffed out._

His oldest friend- _his only friend-_ had been killed. Taken from him. He had promised himself that it would never happen again- not after Fuinur- but it had happened again. Abâragath had been as much his brother as had Fuinur, his biological one- if not more so. His life was fading. His friends were taken. Was it all truly worth living for? For a moment- one, fleeting moment- Herumor considered finally, giving up. He stood disconsolate over the battlefield- and then the rage came.

Rage and all-consuming hatred filled his mind and aged body. He hated Imrahil. He hated Gondor. He hated the free peoples of Middle-earth. But most of all, he hated himself. He had not been able to save Abâragath.

One of the Tower Guard, seeing him so despondent, had decided to take the opportunity to try andkill him, but Herumor, in a terrible rage, countered just in time, swinging his terrible scimitar at the pike and9 breaking it into two. The Guard was then killed, and Herumor set about muredering almost as many as the Storm Knight. However, it was not enough

He looked up to see the guilty crew of the ballista which had killed Abâragath. They must be doomed. Grief, pain and anger filled his heart and his every thought. He would have to kill them- but they were too far. Yet, he knew other ways of killing his enemies.

Herumor knew he should not do it, but he did. He reached out with his dark hand, and seized control over the minds of each of the crew members. The bonds of sorcery that held him to his life were being strained, but he had to do this for Abâragath. The crews stepped away from their ballistae, and slowly walked over to where Herumor was- unthinking, unseeing, unfeeling.

Herumor reached for the Dark, heavy mace strapped across his back, finding suddenly that he had the strength to use it.

" _ **He would make a fine recruit indeed"**_ thought the Dark Lord. A useful ally. For now, however, he must convey to his loyal servant, Mormanar, to strike his next blow. It had been long enough. Ten years was long enough. The Target- The House of Finwë.

If they could land one more sorrow, a last great hurt upon the already tragedy-stricken members of that house, surely their great temper which they were renowned for would be ignited- setting ablaze the flames of war, a foolish, reckless war in which He would destroy them.


	9. Unyielding till the Dark and Bitter End

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Well, here we are again. I'd like to apologise since the last few chapters were not quite up to the standard I had set but I would request forgiveness since I had to write them while on a short trip to India. Here, we have something different, VASTLY DIFFERENT from the battle that has been dragging on for the previous two chapters- I might as well go so far as to call it the most interesting chapter yet.**

 **Chapter 8: Unyielding till the Dark and Bitter End**

The Máhanaxar was in a state of activity and hushed murmuring. Ulmo had deemed this particular meeting important enough to warrant his rise out of the sea. The Vala of the seas rarely left his beloved domain, with all his shimmering aquatic life that he so loved to keep him company, yet this was a meeting like no other.

Only once had they held a meeting of this particular sort. None had forgotten that fateful occasion, that sunlit day when all fourteen of the Valar sat on their resplendent thrones to hold trial in the Ring of Doom.

On that day, the subject of their meeting had been a truly pathetic sight, mewling and screaming, clawing and kicking, with every breath he took uttering a new plea for mercy. Manwë had dearly wanted to give it to him for a second time, even after the repercussions of the first, but the other Valar held firm.

Sighing at last, The Elder King reminded himself that nothing, no emotional ties or personal wants must come in the way of his duties as King. Not even his own brother. It had taken all of the Elder King's tremendous courage to look into the black eyes of Melkor and declare Mandos' recommended sentence held, therefore dooming him to the Void.

He had wept, wept like never before, on returning to Taniquetil, Varda the sole witness to his outburst.

" _I don't want to be king. I never wanted to be king!"_ he had wailed, wishing for the pain to stop. He wished dearly that his Atar had chosen Melkor as king and not him- that would perhaps have halted his darkness and stopped his fall- or perhaps some other, worthier Vala. Yet, it had to be him, and him only, who was forced to doom his closest of kin to an eternity of the greatest torment possible in Eä.

Anybody who saw the composed, calm and collected Elder King would never have thought him capable of such outbursts, but Varda, who knew him well, had correctly deciphered the cause for her beloved's grief- he had, for the longest time, only wished to be loved by his elder brother.

He had asked her- "What did I do wrong, Varda? Where did I err in my ways to make him hate me so?"

No matter how the Starkindler told him that it was not his fault, that he had made no error, and that it was all Melkor's fault, accusations against his brother only deepened his grief.

Finally, Varda understood. Her love for the Elder King was greater than anyone else's love for anything in Eä, save Ilúvatar's for his children, and she would do anything, anything at all to give her husband all that he wanted. However, this was the one thing she could not give him, no matter how much she tried- brotherly love from Melkor.

However, she had done the best thing she could have done for him at the moment- she had consoled him, shared his pain, and once again showcased her absolute love for him with a long, chaste kiss to his lips.

It was with this thought that Manwë extended his hand forward from his throne and clasped in it his Queen's. On his orders, his and Varda's thrones were rather closer to each other than those of the other Valar. " _At least it's not your brother this time'_ said Varda, and Manwë nodded grimly.

Finally, it was time for the entrance of the Doomsman of the Valar. The great doors of the Ring of Doom opened, revealing its Doomsayer. Attired in a black robe with a silver trim and a sweeping black cloak that trailed behind him, Lord Námo strode forth, looking as imposing as ever. He was accompanied by two of his Maiar, the first being the one known as Turmandë, chief of the maiar of Mandos, and the second being Umbarcáno, Námo's personal aide. Their true Valarin names were Tûramânʣênīlóz and Umbârâthâlcanûlûz respectively.

Carrying his great book of Dooms in one hand and his grand sceptre in the other, the Doomsman swept up to his throne which was exactly opposite to Manwë's in the ring. His wife, Vairë, was already seated on her throne. Setting down his great book, he ordered his maiar- "Bring forth the Accused".

The Valar were aware that the Doomsman had been acting rather oddly of late, never walking incarnate unless absolutely essential and confining himself to his halls. Varda, Yavanna and Vairë were having a mental conversation regarding the same- Vairë being concerned about the fact that her spouse had not spoken to her for a week.

The mental conversation of the Valiër, however, was cut short by the arrival of their victim.

Clad in ragged, torn black robes, his wounded body looking as if it had been reanimated from death, 'Mairon' did not at all look like he had ever before.

The Maia had lost much of his power upon his last and greatest defeat, and was now a pathetic sight indeed, being in fact completely unable to walk or support himself. He was being dragged by Turmandë and Umbarcáno, who shoved him none too gently onto his knees, a kneeling position in which he remained as he could not rise by himself.

Tulkas could be seen clenching and unclenching his fists until his knuckles became white, and Oromë was glaring at Sauron as if he would impale him on his spear at any moment. Ulmo grasped his great trident and shot a vicious glance at the offending maia. It was no question what they would wish his fate to be.

Sauron himself was, however, looking oddly resigned, and accepting of his fate. He looked down once or twice at his terrible scarred hands, and examining the stump of the ring finger on his right hand. He kept muttering to himself in Black Speech so that the Valar could not understand him

" _Fool. Stupid, Ridiculous, Unthinking Fool."_ He chastised himself repeatedly. Then, it began.

" **Sauron Gorthaur"** began Námo, his voice radiating such power and authority that all the Maiar save Sauron knelt down. Now, the Valar began to radiate such sheer power and divine glory that Sauron could not help but wince, but he remained defiant. He lifted his head up from the round, and met the piercing gaze of each of the Valar.

" _As if they need to prove that the flame imperishable burns brighter in them than in me. A Token Trial, to prove that they are risen, whereas I am fallen. Typical of the Valar- to rub it in my bleeding face after my defeat"_ said the mocking voice in his head. He looked at the Valar, their gazes literally prickling on his nape, and silently hated them all back.

" **Maia of Melkor."** Námo continued. " **A lie thy life has been. Thou hast wasted thyself for a wrong cause. Thou hast corrupted thy purpose given to thee by the All-father, and turned thy ways to darkness. 'Tis firm that all thy deeds after thy forsaking of thy** _ **true**_ **master were crimes so heinous that the tongue of Valarin lacks aught of any curse suitable in their context. With the belief that it is to thy recognition that thou knowest the number and art aware of the nature of thy crimes, I, as Doomsman of the Valar, declare thy trial commenced."**

And so it began, the Doomsman listing in a slow and methodical voice each and every terrible crime committed by the Lord of the Rings, as the Valar commiserated on what was to be done with him. Accusation after accusation, mainly from Tulkas and Oromë, was hurled at him- yet he made no attempt at defending himself.

" _After all, you deserve it, you twit"_ he chastised himself. He looked up and glared back with all his might at Oromë. He lacked even a sliver of power to compete with the Vala in a contest of wills, and it would cause him tremendous pain to even sustain the gaze into the Vala's eyes for more than a few seconds, but Sauron neither knew nor cared. Pain had stopped affecting him a long while back. His eyes, once burning with a dark fire, had turned black as his power left him- looking cold and dead. Yet, it was these dead eyes that glared back defiantly at Oromë, daring him to finish it. _He would not submit. He would never submit._

However, one figure struck him the most- Aulë had been silent since the onset of the trial, never once accusing his former Maia of anything. The Smith had a legendary soft heart, but his face, this time, was a mask of stone, betraying no emotion. It was terribly hard for him to maintain this façade, hiding the turmoil, the storm of emotions that roiled underneath.

Sauron averted his gaze from Oromë to look at his former master. Aulë was making no move to support him- _good._ He did not want or need the support of his master. Coddling and pitying were the last things he would need now.

He recalled that once, not too long ago, being sent to the void would have been his worst and greatest fear- not so now. He did not have any fears now, since he simply did not care at all. He had been defeated. His fëa was but a fraction of itself and would remain so forever. _He deserved the void._

He recalled why he once feared the void- It would mean he was _worthless- a meaningless scrap of life thrown away from existence._

Mairon liked to think that he was useful. As Aulë's former chief Maia, he had been useful for a long time. He was the first Maia to invent an enchantment complex enough that Melkor himself would tire of trying to unmake it, and moved on to other things- that is how all his creations stayed safe throughout the war.

On the other hand, that was probably how Melkor took notice of him. Most of Melkor's maiar had strayed to the Dark Path of their own will, either due to the Dark Lord's tremendous performance during the Ainulindalë, or due to the promises of power and gifts that appealed to them- but not Mairon.

Mairon did not _join_ Melkor. It was _Melkor_ who persuaded Mairon to join him. Despite his complete disregard and content for beings lesser than himself, the Dark Lord always found Mairon- _admirable._ He was, indeed, the only Maia he had cared to pay notice to during the long years of Arda's making.

Mairon was Melkor's 'project', and his greatest one. The only servant the Dark Lord had to personally draw from the light. It had been an extremely long-winded process, with endless coaxing and cajoling on Melkor's part.

' _Seduction'_ was the term used by many to describe it- in reality, physical seduction was the only means Melkor had not resorted to in order to obtain his allegiance. It had been a perfectly-carried out plan, little pieces falling into place. Aulë, with his endless lessons of patience, restraint and modesty, was counterbalanced perfectly by Melkor's lessons of flair and refusal to back down. Eventually, owing to his innate ambition and craving for greatness, Mairon had chosen the latter- _and look what it all came to._

' _Melkor Never found you worthless. Aulë never found you worthless. You were of great use to them, but yourself? No, you could not serve yourself when you needed it most. You are a slave, Mairon. In the end, that means you are, indeed- worthless.'_

Mairon, therefore, finally found himself speaking, for the first time:

"Hail, Valar, although for ye, this gesture is naught. I make no plea, for I have no worth. Mairon I no longer am- a broken creature am I. Haste, now, and lay what sentence thou wilt upon these shoulders mine- broken they have been countless times, and thou shalt have the pleasure of inflicting the last great hurt, the one that ends the wretched life of this Dark Lord." said he, resigning himself to his fate.

The line struck a chord of sympathy within some of the Valar- Manwë and Aulë most of all. To others, like Varda Elentarí, it served as explanation why he had not attempted even the slightest defence. It almost broke the heart of Nienna to see someone so broken that he did not even care about anything even more- despite his crimes, she still pitied him.

Silence ensued in the Máhanaxar.

"No!' said someone, breaking it. "I will not take this silently any longer!"

Aulë had stood up, his iron restraint broken by his former Maia's words. He fought back tears of passion, as he said- "Long have I wanted him back. He is not yet irredeemable, and may find salvation yet!"

"It does not become of a Vala such as yourself to allow emotion to cloud your judgment, Aulë" began Námo, but the Smith did not care. He then turned to Manwë, who he knew would be most affected by his words.

"Mânawenûz. Please. You know most of all what it means to lose a loved one forever- please let me be spared from the same fate."

The Elder King sat back, deep in thought. He sympathised with Aulë's words, but as he was about to speak, Yavanna had risen and forcibly grabbed her husband's arm.

"Aghûlêz, NO!" yelled Yavanna, who had risen and seized his hand.

"You too, Ezelliniđil?" said Aulë, tears coming to his eyes. "You do not wish Mairon back?"

"No, I want him gone! Much grief he has caused you, and he has nothing but hatred and cruelty to offer! He will destroy your mind, my beloved! Yes, yes- in fact, i-in fact, it- it is…"

"My beloved?" asked Aulë.

"I-in fact, it is best he- he is" -Yavanna faltered, collecting her emotions- "It is best he is sent to the Void, Aulë!"

Aulë was beyond shocked. Yavanna had once loved Mairon as a son, as he had. It was true that her realm, that of the plants and trees, had suffered the most during Morgoth's and Sauron's reigns of terror, but for her to hate him so… No. Wife or not, Aulë would do anything to protect his Mairon.

Mairon, however, looked up that moment with baleful eyes, and looked directly at Yavanna. For a small moment, the Dark Fire seemed to return to them, and he glared with all his might at the offending Tree Queen, who glared back with much greater power than he. It was odd that Sauron still had some power left. None knew how he was sustaining the gaze with the Valië. However, he finally gave a short, harsh mirthless laugh which was Ironic in every way. He let out a few coughs, and then spat blood on the floor. He did not care. _Simply choosing to not feel pain,_ he resumed staring at Aulë, who stared at Manwë, begging for Sauron's clemency.

Finally, it was Námo who spoke up.

" **Gorthaur, thy crimes are terrible enough to warrant thy condemning to the Void that is Without. We see no reason to refrain from damning thee to an eternity of oblivion. Hast thou any reason to prevent this punishment? For all thou hast said is that thou wouldst deserve it."**

With a long, wary sigh, Sauron shuddered, and somehow found enough strength to rise to his feet. Black Robes billowing about him, the Dar Lord looked truly majestic even in this battered and beaten state. His knees were moments from crumbling, and he suffered pain unendurable for any other, but he cared not.

"No statements are there that I would like to present for thy inspection. I have naught to say. No reasons will I give to stay ye hands. Sauron Gorthaur is… finished."

"Thou say'st thou wilt give no reasons, yet thou dost not mean that thou hast naught." said a deep, majestic voice which had only communicated mentally so far. Manwë had risen from his throne, addressing Sauron directly. Sauron slowly looked up to meet the Elder King's electric blue eyes, glaring with hatred and not resign this time. This is what he had been fearing. _The Valar must not know!_

"Brothers, I fear we have no choice. He hath not presented aught, but indeed, something there is. His mind will tell the truth he shalt not."

Mentally, he told the Valar: "We must examine his memories. He is hiding something. Some Dark, secret reasons he does not wish to reveal. He thinks he deserves the void, but we cannot call ourselves just until we have examined every possible evidence."

Sauron had by now correctly deduced what was going to happen. He would not allow it.

"Námo, if thou wouldst, I give thee permission to search his mind. By rule of the Elder King, pleas of the defence are to be ignored, for he doth not know his own good."

"Indeed I shall." said Námo, obeying his king.

"Nay! Thou wilt not violate me! Thou dost not have _my permission!_ Thou wilt not defile me with thy touch! I-I refuse!" shouted Mairon, in an act of defiance, but he knew that this had no worth. The Valar and he were comparable to a vast horde of Mûmakil and the tiniest, evaporating droplet of water.

Námo forged forward, and made the connection between Sauron's mind and his. It was thickly guarded and defended, not allowing the Valar to read his thoughts. Yet, the shields should be no trouble as Sauron had hardly any power left and the Doomsman's might was tremendous. Sauron resorted to pleas. Finally, he pleaded and begged.

"Please, no! Must you violate my mind as well? Destroy my fëa and be done with it! I deserve the void! I have no words, nor worth, nor power- please _let this poor, destroyed Maia_ go!"

Námo boomed: "My King has ordered it. Thou wilt not stop me. Thy mind will not be laid bare, but thou wilt merely be examined by the Valar. Thy mind shalt not be laid bare, shattered as it be." it was not reassurance, merely a statement, spoken in the same, impartial tones. For once, Manwë began to grow concerned for the Doomsman. It was unlike him to be _so dispassionate._ He always comforted those he had to judge, victims or otherwise. The Doomsman had tremendous compassion, choosing to not show it lest it clouded his judgment. Now, however, it was different.

Sauron knew there was only one thing to do. Only one thing. He had a secret reason for his crimes, a secret reason why he had come to Arda in the first place despite his dislike of existing as a physical being. _And the Valar must not know it._

As the Doomsman prepared to strike away every mental shield of his, Sauron's consciousness entered his own mind, enacting a terrible task.

The Doomsman's presence as like a loud knock on a front door Sauron refused to open. His consciousness entered the realms of his memory, and found what it was looking for.

His mindscape was a terrible, shattered mess, but, as always, retained a semblance of order. The Valar, if they entered, would come to know exactly what Sauron was hiding.

Námo looked at the Elder King for one last confirmation before he threw aside Sauron's defences. No matter what his duty complied, he would not violate the mind of another without first having Manwë's full backing and Eru's own will. The Elder King regarded him first, then Sauron, and then nodded, sighing wearily.

And then, the assault began. The full might of the Doomsman's great will pressed against Sauron's broken one. Nobody anticipated Sauron to last long- but nobody knew what shields Sauron had placed upon himself.

For each mental barrier that Námo cut through or blasted aside, a new one formed to take its place. The Doomsman groaned mentally- this was taking far longer than he had expected.

Meanwhile, Sauron was fighting with all his might, but none of the Valar knew that he was doing two tasks at once. First, he fed off his own rage, hate and anger to repair his mental walls constantly- and he fed off the anger of _Tulkas, Yavanna and Oromë_ to gain strength enough to erect new defences. It was a dark technique, one that required tremendous skill. It was created by Melkor- _and perfected by Sauron._ One fed off one's hate and anger to manufacture energy and gain strength. It was possible only for Ainur.

However, Sauron had taken it to another level- _He had found out a way to feed off Others' negative emotions to build his own strength._ Oromë, Tulkas and the others, though righteous beings, radiated enough hatred and revulsion for him to accomplish this task.

While Námo struggled to get past him, Sauron isolated every single happy memory that he had. Some he remembered clearly- and some, the happiest of them all- were clouded.

The memories he had of triumph and exploits were all happy in one way, and clear- but the memories of _true happiness,_ memories gained a long time ago in Almaren, and memories from even earlier, in the Timeless Halls- these had a dark shadow covering them. Melkor's shadow.

The Dark Lord had once brutally and ruthlessly ripped through his lieutenant's mind, placing bonds of shadow over memories of happiness so that Mairon would never be able to find his old happiness again. He tore apart Mairon's soul, which made him _what he truly was,_ and remade it into the monster it was now.

" _All for thy own good, Mairon, all for thy own good- thou wilt thank me for this inevitably"_ was what Melkor had said. Sauron laughed bitterly- he had been right. Sauron had a swill of iron, and was not going to let his emotions and false hope get in his way.

He set about destroying every happy memory, destroying his own identity, so that the Valar could not see within. His memories of Dark Triumph meant nothing to him now, and he destroyed them without a moment's thought. Joy meant nothing to him now.

Finally, he got to the clouded memories, and set about ruining those as well. Although he could not lift Melkor's bonds, one thing he could do- _destroy both bond and memory._ If the memory ceased to exist, so would the bond. A great blast of pain rent through his body, after the realisation of what he had just done sank in, and his knees buckled, Sauron falling down to the floor. A scream reached his lips but he choked it back. _He would not show weakness among the Valar._

Námo paused for a second, erroneously thinking it was he who had caused that pain. No matter what, he would not directly harm anybody. Sauron took the opportunity to somehow do what was beyond impossible: _he forced the Vala out of his mind._

Námo was shocked. Manwë was shocked. How could this broken creature hold out against the full might of a Vala? The Elder King opened his mouth to say something, but the Doomsman shook his head and said:

"Impressive. Even in defeat thou art formidable. Thou hast my respect for thy tenacity, maia- but I do know how to defeat thee now." Said Námo, once again assailing Sauron's mind.

This time, the Doomsman launched a many-pronged attack, sending forth the force of his will like many tendrils to break many shields at once. Sauron gritted his teeth in concentration, trying a different tactic now.

This assault was harder to withstand, and the Doomsman would be in his mind at any moment. Therefore, Sauron hastened to complete his job- now that he had destroyed his memories, he needed to corrupt the remnants.

The benign memories he had of the Valar and his fellow Maiar were turned to malicious, hateful ones. Love was turned to hatred, friendship to enmity, liking to dislike and happiness to anger in every one of his memories. It startled Sauron to see just how much control he still retained over his fractured wreck of a mind.

Meanwhile, as the Doomsman entered his mind, Sauron led him astray- round and round in circles. The Doomsman saw only reiterating themes, and nothing of note, no matter how much he looked. It was because Námo had compassionately left Sauron's mind free, and did not lay it bare. Therefore, Sauron was able to confuse him until he withdrew of his own accord.

Manwë was shocked again when he saw the Doomsman having been thwarted yet again. None of the Valar were as powerful as the Doomsman when it came to the realm of the mind, save perhaps Irmo.

"Námo, would you like my help? I believe I could help open the doors to his mind" Manwë communicated mentally. He was met with stubborn refusal.

At once, all the Valar of the 'void' camp, Tulkas, Oromë, and Ulmo included, offered to pull apart Sauron's mind. Manwë refused to offer them the chance- he did not wish Mairon harmed.

Yavanna was about to begin an impassioned outburst against the Maia, when Aulë caught her hand.

"My love, if I am worth anything to you at all, then please let my Mairon go! Can you not see? He is broken so terribly, yet refuses to give in! Look at his pain! He is suffering, suffering due to his defiance! He does not wish to give himself that chance, therefore we must give it to him! Are you so blinded, my love, that you would not see the heart of one so ruined as him and condemn him immediately? This is unlike the Valië I once knew."

Yavanna, who was thinking up a fiery retort, was stymied by the last utterance. She looked into Aulë's eyes and saw nothing but compassion and love for her, and a stubborn refusal to let Mairon be damned. Tears came to the Smith's metallic golden eyes, calling forth tears from Yavanna's earth-brown ones.

"You are right. As always." she said, before sitting down. She would not show her tears to the other Valar. She would wait until they got home, before she could weep on his shoulders.

" _How could I?"_ she thought at last.

Námo, meanwhile, had come to a decision. He regarded Mairon with his eyes which were Black as the Void, and Sauron recognised a little glint of sympathy again. The Doomsman then threw his hood over his eyes, obscuring them, before saying coldly:

"I gave thee the chance of showing us thy thoughts painlessly. With thy refusal, I tried to circumvent thy defence as gently as I would so that no hurt would come to thee. Yet, thou refused. Know, Sauron Gorthaur, thou hast brought this upon thyself. Thy mind will now be laid bare before the Valar."

Sauron looked at him with those baleful, dead eyes once more, before nodding resignedly. He still had once task to do- and he would do it.

"No- don't hurt him!" shouted Aulë, but it was too late.

Námo's will slammed into his with the force of a storm-blast, destroying every defence at once. Sauron spent no time rebuilding them, as this was a hopeless fight. His consciousness retreated into the Dark Depths of his mind, where he kept his feelings, closely guarded.

The outer walls of his mind crumbled in almost no time at all, as Námo began his assault on the inner walls. Sauron screamed in pain, unable to hold out against this irresistible force, but still went on with his task.

His feelings shone bright in his mind- there was hatred, for all- anger, At the Hobbits, the Maiar, his servants, the Heir of Isildur, and the Valar (all fifteen of them) –and finally, the most prominent. _Love._ It shone like gold within his mind.

It was love for Arda. A dark, fiery, passionate love. Sauron held no love for Valinor, as he deemed it not a part of Arda- but of Middle-earth- he loved every rock, every pebble, every little grain of dust. It was why he had come to Arda in the first place despite strong misgivings. He had done everything, everything for Arda.

Knowing that, if left to their own devices, the Children of Eru would attempt to fight over it. Make ill use of it. Hence, Sauron strove to conquer them, so that none may harm his beloved Arda. This was the most difficult task he faced, to mask his love.

His defences had been broken, and Námo was within his mind. Slowly, the consciousness of Manwë came in too, followed by the other Valar. His anger and hatred were plain of all to see. Anything positive, anything of light- it was all destroyed. _Let them see what they wanted to. This is what they wanted to believe._

And so, the former Dark Lord hid his love for Arda. He pushed it, expelled it from his mind, and hid it within his fëa, where it would remain evermore for none to see. He would be known and remembered as the Dark Lord who terrorised Arda- not the errant Maia who loved it.

The rest of the trial passed as a blur- Námo, extremely furious after seeing the sheer amount of hatred in Sauron's mind, decided to side with those who wished him in the Void. Manwë sat silent. Varda went over to the Void group, since Sauron's darkness had blotted out many a star.

Aulë, Nienna, Irmo and Estë protested in vain, while Yavanna sat and said nothing, crying silently. Finally, there came the event which Sauron would always remember- Námo's doom.

 _He spoke of his own accord, and declared that Mairon be damned of his own judgment, without consulting the Elder King._

Sauron slumped as Námo stripped his powers of sorcery from him. It would have ripped him apart with pain _had he cared._ Choosing to display one last bit of power, Sauron disincarnated with his fána falling dead to the ground, but Námo caught him and threw him to Oromë, who bound him in the impersonal and threw him into the Void.

 _In the Void, there was order. Order he loved. There was order, since there was no chaos. Everything was black. There was just-_ nothing.

 _He would stay here for all eternity. He was finished._

"At least," the disembodied spirit thought, finding that it somehow retained the power of thought- "At least I went out fighting. _I did not beg, as Melkor had. I ended with dignity, with power- like a true Dark Lord."_

No matter what, he was unyielding- Unyielding till the Dark and Bitter End.

 **The extremely complicated names ending with –z are the Valarin names. There exist very few Valarin words from very few sources, so I greatly studied the etymology of what words there were and invented a little of my own Valarin.**

 **Right now, I am just too tired to provide translations, therefore they will be given during the next chapter. One thing I can say, though- that is definitely not the last we have seen of Mairon.**


	10. Flames of Wrath and The Frost of Hatred

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Sorry about the second inconclusive ending- I promise to get the battle over and done with in the next chapter. As for the House of Finw** **ë and the Dark Lord's intent to do evil against its members, it is a calculated move on his part, wishing to prompt them into a hopeless war against him in which he could either crush them, corrupt them, or in other ways- use them.**

 **Thanks to Daughter of the Oceans and all the guests for reviewing- I think I see a few recurring names there. I wish you would log on and properly review- but thanks nonetheless. I'm glad you all liked what I did with Mairon- but if you wish a good interpretation of him, please check out Sauron Gorthaur's stories. In my opinion, she writes the best Mairon on FFnet.**

 **Sorry for those wishing Innocent!Mairon- just can't do it. Must be dark and cruel for me to write well. If you wish Innocent!Mairon- Check AzureSkye23's stories. It is also worthwile to check out her stories due to the lovely interpretation of the Valar- and in particular, Námo Mandos.**

 **I'm surprised Comedy Monarchy didn't review- but the Storm Knight has a lot to say and do in this one, so I hope you review this one. Thanks for all those you have written so far.**

 **I am currently writing the next chapter, and I warn you- quite a few occurrences take place. After those events, a general shift in the story takes place to Middle-earth, where all the action will be focused.**

 **Well, on with the Chapter, then…**

 **Chapter 9: The Flames of Wrath and the Frost of Hatred**

Herumor stood over the bloody mass he had just created, spiked mace held at his side, slowly and almost gently dripping blood to further redden the fields. He had slaughtered the crew of the ballista which had loosed the fateful bolt; killed the ones guilty for the end of Abâragath. He was still not quite yet satisfied.

Yet, something had tingled inside him as he hefted the cruel mace, utterly _destroying_ the bodies of the men in front of him. They had offered no resistance, as they were under the influence of his sorcery. They were battered, bloodied, mashed-up and most gruesomely murdered, and some got their heads swung clean off, such was his cruelty.

That little feeling of feral joy, of savage satisfaction alarmed him- in no way was he a sadist. He had done it for Abâragath, he reminded himself- but it could not, after all, be called righteous anger. He knew himself to be anything but righteous- Servant of Sauron and Traitor of Númenor that he was- it was grief, followed by anger.

He lifted his head, seeing no one making his way toward him after his dark display, saw the Storm Knigth still merrily killing away, and was suddenly reminded that he had a battle to win. To his alarm, he saw two eagles coming up in the distance, joining their brother who was circling. The eagles then started swooping down and picking up his troops, throwing them from a height- and then that reminded him.

It reminded him of the second hidden detachment, the last card he had to play, which he had not revealed yet.

He surveyed the battlefield, and saw Dol Amroth winning. Between the eagles, the elite troops and Imrahil, they were defeating Herumor's forces, tired after the uphill charge and in disarray after the artillery barrage and arrow-winds.

Of course, the Storm Knight, who he assumed to be representing a third side, was the ultimate winner, killing many. However, even the spectre was being tied down by the Silver Stars, the glorious royal guard of Imrahil. Although a few of their number had fallen, they were scoring various dents, and had even made three gashes and two smaller holes in the Knight's armour, eliciting an 'Ow' each time, often accompanied by "Watch where you're poking your pikey-things, you blighters!"

Now, they switched targets to his horse, and although their halberds seemed to go straight through the silvery outline of the spectral mount, it did neigh loudly as if in pain each time.

"DON'T YOU DARE POKE WINIFRED!" roared the Knight at last, and with a powerful grunt summoned a barrage of lightning out of the ground somehow, blasting his foes back.

"Confusticate and Bebother ye olde buggers!" said he, panting, and charged away, to wreak havoc in some other area of the Battlefield.

That gave the Dol Amroth forces time to regroup, and clump around the Dark Army of Herumor, slowly fighting their way through it.

Herumor, however, had by now run back by a great distance, and looked up high at the sheer mountain-wall behind and above the cavern, which formed its foot. Finally, he caught sight of what he was looking for, and looked at the battlefield a last time. His Morgûl Knights were nowhere to be seen, and he surmised that they had pulled out, giving the remnant of the Swan-knights time to charge into his infantry. He sighed again, as most dark lieutenants never do, raised his voice, and released an unholy screech.

* * *

Landroval, the proud eagle of Manwë, had never expected opposition in the skies. It was out of necessity and great reluctance that he started taking part in the battle, finally summoning two of his brothers to help out.

What he did not at all expect was for the defiant Black Númenórean commander to have _this_ many tricks up his sleeve. First the ghastly Morgûl Knights, and now this.

Two answering screeches, more terrible than any sound a man's throat may produce, were heard at the back of the battlefield, echoing off the mountain walls. Only those who had faced the Nazgûl at Minas Tirith and at the Morannon recognised the screeches, as did Landroval.

The Fell beasts of Mordor, therefore, had not all perished with their Black Riders- or perhaps there had been simply more than Nine, with others existing apart from the mounts of the Ringwraith.

The Mountain-wall was completely sheer, but had a secret, the tiniest of secrets: There was a cleft in the rock wall. There was an opening, leading into an elevated cave, much like the Goblins of the Misty Mountains liked to use as the 'Front porches' to their winding, dark lairs. This 'cave' was inaccessible by foot, and so well-hidden that even the Eagles, with their sharp sight, had completely overlooked it before then- but it housed a dark terror which served as Herumor's last gambit.

To the men below, there was a noise like a hurricane, followed by the exit of two great black clouds from the seemingly-invisible cleft. It seemed as if they had materialised out of thin air. Landroval knew better, and with his sight, the eagle saw the clear outlines of two Riders, cloaked in black and masked. These were ordinary men, not wraiths- either two more Ancient Númenóreans or extremely skilled beastmasters from Harad- but it became clear that each beast had a rider.

Then came the greatest shock of all- instead of a screech, a terrible roar resounded and shook the rocks of the mountain-wall. An avalanche of rocks came down, blocking the entrance, as if in haste to withhold the terror within. However, the monster would not be restrained, and with a second mighty roar, something stuck the rocks hard. The mountain shook. Finally, a blasting sound was heard, and the terror burst forth.

Landroval and his brothers were forced to look twice. _It could not be. No. There could not be more of them. It was impossible-their eyes were fooling them._

Each of the eagles was blessed with an unfailing memory, and they clearly remembered the news Olórin had brought them exactly ninety years ago. _Smaug was the last one._

Apparently not.

She was a cold drake of the north, and flew without rider. Ringlach was, in truth, the deadliest weapon Herumor had at his disposal. She was rather small for a dragon, smaller even than cold-drakes are in comparison with the great fire-drakes – but she made up for that with training.

Herumor had personally trained her- she was his 'project' during the War of the Ring. It had been Herumor's job to explore the more obscure regions of Middle-earth. Most often it would be a trip to far Harad or into mysterious Rhûn, where he went under the guidance of Sauron to forge alliances with the men, alliances which would have been so vital in the war had luck been on their side.

However, it so happened that his path one day led him to the ruins of the Withered Heath.

A smoking, barren landscape it was, bereft of any of the great worms- and then he had found her, dying from wounds inflicted by a superior Dragon. Perhaps it had been Smaug, before he left for Erebor, who had inflicted the hurts- but he cared for her in the cold, and healed her injuries. When she regained fitness, he had taken her to Barad-dûr, where Sauron hid her within the confines of the Dark Tower.

The Dark Lord would have used her in war- but Herumor was the only one she listened to, and since killing her would be a waste, Sauron had let the dragon go with his servant, and he had thus far managed to keep her safe. Whenever he used her, it was sparingly, and did so only when he was sure of annihilating opposition so that none could tell the tale of another dragon.

The Fell beasts with their riders circled in the sky, while Ringlach swept down in a dive. Herumor had only a split second warning, but due to the co-ordination he had developed with the Dragon, he held out his arm and clawed it.

The armoured fingers caught one of the many deadly spines on Ringlach's back, and Herumor, in a millisecond, tightened his grip as he was swept off into the air. Once above the battlefield, the Dragon hovered for a moment, allowing her rider to climb up properly slightly behind where the Dragon's long neck began and between two spines -he flew without saddle, trusting his mount to not let him fall- and shot off, expertly dodging the arrows archers fired at them. The Fell beasts converged around Herumor, who ordered them to follow his every move.

Swiftly, Herumor grabbed a spine and jerked it slightly towards himself without hurting Ringlach, this being the signal for the Dragon to dive. She did so, headed for the Swan-knights of Dol-Amroth. At the perfect moment, Herumor scratched a muscle on the Dragon's back, making her pull up sharply.

Herumor extended forth his scimitar and scratched Ringlach's neck, this not harming the Dragon in the least due to her thick hide, and shouted: " **Ghâsh!"**

Ringlach opened her mouth and let loose a terrible blast of the cold winds of the North. So frosty was its ire that the Swan-knights were halted in their charge, bracing against the biting winds, allowing Herumor's Morgûl Knights to turn around sharply and be the first to charge.

Many would regard a Cold-Drake's breath to be a weakness, it being nothing but a cold wind when compared to the terrible, destructive flames of a Fire-Drake. However, it was not just a wind- it was colder than the coldest winds of the north. Herumor far preferred the subtlety of this weapon to the raw, destructive power of the Fire-drake, as it did not affect one's own lines and provided a tactical advantage by demoralising attackers and halting charges by its cold blast.

It was ironic, then, that Herumor would shout "Fire!" to unleash cold. Even now, he was diving again, and as Ringlach held her claws out, Herumor drew his mace. At the perfect moment, just before they briefly touched the ground, Herumor hefted it and swung viciously, lopping the heads off two and if not killing, then grievously wounding three. Ringlach had snared about four in each claw, those who were not dead to be dropped from a height. The Fell beasts, riders obeying Herumor, swept down as well, and executed the same manoeuvre.

* * *

Imrahil's forces were falling apart. The Prince rode around, rallying soldiers and killing elites, but he had to admire Herumor's skill: Not a single pike had been able to hit the beasts. He looked at the eagles in desperation- Ah, they were finally engaging Herumor's aerial group.

The Storm Knight saw that this fight was taking far too long. He had managed to destroy such a large number of elves, who were superior fighters than mortals, yet he somehow found his power weakened against the mortals.

"Curse you, yer bluddy scurvy curs!" he shouted, deciding to try out a few nautical insults. It was rather a stereotypical impression of an average Corsair Captain. The Silver Stars, energy spent and more than half of them slain, were still holding out against his overwhelming force. Imrahil himself carried out a charge on him, and swung his blade with such brutal force that it blasted the Storm Knight's shimmering pauldron off. He yelped in pain, deciding this had gone on long enough. He would have to spend a lot of hours restoring his armour later.

Finding that his odd cursing was putting them off, he decided to try a new tactic:

"Now wait just a second, y'insufferable blighters, halt yer stinky horses!" They all stopped attempting to strike him, thinking that he was uttering a terrible curse.

" 'Ow many times must I remind you not to foolishly, feloniously, discombobulatedly…" The last one must have been a terrible curse indeed. They all were shocked, wondering what to do.

"… Attempt to stop a being with UNLIMITED POWER!"

While they were gaping at him, dumbstruck, a whole storm had been forming on the sly above their heads. Savage lightning bolts struck many a time in the general vicinity of the Storm Knight, stunning or outright killing most of the Silver Stars.

"That got 'em, the wonky loonies…" said the Storm Knight, his expression changing to one of glee as he spurred Winifred on and slew each and every one of the downed knights. Imrahil looked on, torn between rage, vindictiveness and overwhelming grief- he had trained them himself, and known them since youth. Tearfully, he bid them retreat.

The Battlefield was a scene of chaos. The Morgûl Knights had successfully slaughtered the artillery crew, and Herumor's men were carrying the ballistae and catapults off. The Tower Guard were fighting to the death, slaying the remnant of the weary Númenórean warriors. Dol Amroth held the numerical advantage, the Servants of Sauron the tactical one.

Imrahil decided there was only one thing for victory. He charged straight into Herumor's ranks, with the same madness born of grief, intending to slay anyone and everyone in sight.

Meanwhile, in the aerial battle, the three eagles were fighting the dragon and the two fell beasts. Herumor engaged Landroval, who he deemed a skilled opponent: The Eagle was old and weary, but tremendously strong, had an iron will and flew skilfully.

The Eagles did hold an advantage in terms of speed, endurance and strength over the Fell Beasts, but Herumor and Ringlach flew so skilfully that they managed to hold off Landroval and simultaneously wreak havoc on the battlefield. The Storm Knight was fleeing from a charging Imrahil, chanting: "Oh, ye old wart, you are not faaast enough… I'll outrun you or I'll blaaast you up… I love fireworks and yoooouu are goin' tae be the next onnnnneee…."

"Curse your cacophony!" Imrahil did a skilful turn and swung his sword at the Storm Knight's helm, but only managed to cut off the brilliant blue (fake) feathers that made up the Helm's plume.

"Oi! Nobody, I said _nobody_ cuts off 'em whiskers!" said the Storm Knight. Imrahil loathed every bit of him, from the casual demeanour to almost Melkian delight in causing agony to others, be it by pain or by over-aggravation.

The Storm Knight aimed a savage counterattack at Imrahil, but the prince parried each blow. Finally, the Storm Knight brought his halberd down in a swooping arc, Imrahil catching it with his blade. They stayed in bladelock for a while, before Imrahil saw the sparks that were creeping up on the sly from the Dark Halberd into his own sword's blade. He disengaged just in time before the sparks reached his hands.

" **Aim for the flying beasts. Kill the Eagles. Kill the Dragon."** came the voice in the admittedly limited mind of the Storm Knight.

" **Oh- er, absolutely, O most divinely, bedazzlingly spiffy Master"** the Storm Knight replied back mentally, before adding: **"Er, master… what the udûn should I do 'bout this mad prince who's keen on sticking his shiny implement up my posterior quarters?"**

" **Leave him. You are not to engage him now- killing him is not your job. Avoid him if you must."**

" **Ah, good- the li'l feller's an absolute devil! 'E cut off my helm-whiskers, 'E did!"** the Storm Knight shuddered. The Dark Lord found himself fortunate that patience was one of his virtues- for he dearly wished to roast his own servant out of irritation. Imrahil was charging around again, aiming for his neck.

"Oh, this was fun! Same time next week, eh? Cheerio!" said the Storm Knight, summoning forth a blast of lightning, and disappearing. The Blast threw Imrahil off his mount, and as he got up, spitting dust, he looked so much like Thranduil when he was thwarted ten years ago- disappointed yet torn with rage.

" **COWARD! FILTHY, ERU-DAMNED COWAAARRRDDD!"** He roared.

The Storm Knight, appearing on the other side of the battlefield, looked confused. His westron was a little wonky, as he put it- but he was sure 'Void-cursed Balrog excreta' was the least of Imrahil's problems.

"Such Profanity!" he said with a shudder, knowing he was perfectly capable of the same and worse.

He shrugged, and pointed his halberd at the sky.

Odd lightning bolts began thundering down from the heavens at random intervals, all aimed in the general vicinity of the Eagles and Fell beasts. The Tower Guard were fighting to the last man, and Herumor had committed his reserves. It would soon be over now.

So far, the aerial fight had been fairly even, with Herumor perfectly co-ordinating his movements with Ringlach. The duo fired cold blast after cold blast, throwing the troops below off-balance and slowing the eagles down with the cold of the north. Aside from that, the eagles had managed to tear rifts in the faces and long necks of both Fell beasts, and Landroval had managed to add a long scar to Herumor's face and to Ringlach's side. The Swan-knights were dying to the Morgûl Knights, the latter not engaging the Tower Guard for fear of losing their mounts.

Finally, Herumor took notice of the blasts of thunder when one hit an eagle directly. The mighty eagle was not killed, but injured, and circled lower, out of the fight. Slowly, it rose again, desperately trying to fly away.

Before Herumor could capitalise on their advantage, a blast of lightning hit A Fell Beast's wing, damaging the fragile leathery folds of skin. It would heal with time, but the beast was downed for now. Herumor hoped the rider had survived.

There was left Landroval and his brother, Thiad, and Ringlach and the other Fell Beast. Almost at once, Landroval and Herumor caught sight of the Storm Knight, who was now blasting barrages of lightning upwards from his halberd as well as summoning it downwards from the sky. If he was as formidable a foe as they anticipated, they would not have long to live.

They seemed to have come to an unspoken Gentleman's agreement, and Landroval ordered Thiad to retreat, while Herumor bade the Beastmaster atop the fell beast to steer away to safety.

Ringlach and Landroval then fought in the storm-stricken skies, with the Storm Knight trying to kill them both. Streaks of vicious forked lightning flashed both from above and from below, as Landroval attempted to gouge Ringlach's eyes out and the latter responded with a cold blast to throw him off.

"Ar, blast it, the buggers are going to take forever for me to roast…" muttered the Storm Knight, before bellowing: "Could you just stay put for a second?" to no avail.

"Garn! Nasty blighters, I'm done with you!" he shouted nastily, before brewing one of the greatest storms he ever had.

The Storm Knight rarely utilised song-magic, as he sang with a ghostly, screechy tune, but the horrible tune along with what little of Valarin he had bothered to learn from his 'most Rhetorartistic' Dark Lord was enough to brew the terrible, turbulent storm he was hoping for.

Landroval and Herumor, from where they were fighting, did not see the Storm. Landroval had managed to tear a bloody, but not very deep gash on Ringlach's side, while the other had responded by attempting a nasty bite to the neck but had not managed to choke him or bite it off, able to only leave the throat hurting and dripping red.

" _ **Diisat, Ringlach! Skûtog-tul!"**_ shouted Herumor, and spurred on his mount- but Landroval was disengaging. It was unlike the Great Eagle to disengage while in a duel of honour, noted Herumor. He looked down- just in time.

" **Skai! Skai, Skai, Skaiii!"** he shouted repeatedly, as he frantically touched the right spots on his Dragon's sinew to make her swerve the right way thrice- narrowly dodging three lightning bolts coming up from the Storm Knight with three different trajectories.

Imrahil saw two of his friends- Abrazân and Adrahil- twin brothers, both members of the Silver Stars- lying sprawled on the Battlefield, unhorsed. Adrahil had most probably broken his legs, and Abrazân had a gash on the stomach caused by a brutal strike of the Storm Knight. If left alone, Abrazân would slowly die, and Adrahil would be slain in the aftermath. _No. Imrahil would not let them die._

" _Friends- take my horse. Gimilnîlu will take you home to the White Palace of Dol Amroth, and you will be safe. You will live."_

Abrazân gave a sharp moan of protest, and Adrahil said: "Nay, my liege, we cannot accept! We are sworn to protect you, and now you abandon hope for your own self to… _save… us…_ "

Imrahil cupped his chin, gently soothing him. He had no meaningless reassurance to give, and said- "No, Adrahil. You and your brother are precious like diamonds to me. Losing you would rend me apart- I have lost so many of my friends already. I have failed you all. You fought bravely- live to fight another day."

"B-but- my liege- you, the prince- I, a common…"

"No. You are anything but common. Take Gimilnîlu and go! I may have failed you- but I still hold you bound to accept a royal order. GO!"

Ignoring their protests, Imrahil hauled Abrazân over and threw him onto the horse, subdued Adrahil after he offered struggle, and threw him over as well.

" _You know what to do"_ he said softly to Gimilnîlu, and the white horse ran off home.

Imrahil bared his teeth in grim conviction- he had chosen to stay because he could not return home without glory. He would either somehow scrape victory- or die fighting with his army.

The Aerial fight had petered down to one of surprise attacks and blows, as the two fliers tried their best to dodge the thunderous lightning. Landroval was struck on the wingtip, but had already committed, slashing his talon into Ringlach's face- a last second twitch from Herumor saving the dragon's eye and instead rewarding the battered eagle with merely a scar.

Lightning blasted down onto Ringlach's wing as well, blasting a hole through the thin layer of skin. Herumor looked at it- it would cause pain, but would not be an impediment. It would heal over time- but he must be cautious.

Landroval went in for an attack again, but Herumor swerved around and swung the mace into his other wingtip, averting his claws. The eagle was not injured by the powerful strike, but was rattled enough for a storm-blast to hit his back, forcing him down. The Eagle was in considerable pain- and knew he had only one chance.

Using the tremendous will and endurance Manwë had instilled in him, Landroval recovered himself, and flew into a painful dive. True to his expectation, Herumor followed, Ringlach folding her wings to plummet at a faster rate. The Dragon was gaining on Landroval. The Eagle, despite his back, swerved and pulled up, dodging the Dragon's gnashing jaws. _Come. On. COME ON!_

"Gah, I'm fed up with yer! No more games, little birdies- your meat's the roast for today's dinner!" roared the Knight, before concentrating the entirety of his power on the storm he had summoned. It was terrible. His sentience flowed through the clouds, willing them to move.

Landroval saw it in time, and flew high into the surrounding clouds, hoping that the Knight did not suddenly decide to summon Sheet lightning to finish him. Herumor saw it late, and was faced with a decision- to pursue Landroval, to dodge the lightning, or to attempt the impossible- that was, to do both.

" _No, Herumor, not with Sauron's power could you accomplish both. Do not pursue the Eagle. Save Ringlach. Must save Ringlach."_

Abandoning all thought of pursuing Landroval, Herumor made Ringlach dive low, the Storm-clouds somehow pursuing them. The Clouds gave way to an unnatural, _concentrated ring_ of lightning, a bolt coming from it at every single second. Blasts furrowed the ground in a thick trail, as at lleast five rained down on the same area progressively. The Storm Knight was doing his utmost to down Ringlach. Herumor knew that he could not dodge- speed was his only hope.

The Storm Knight, with all his unnatural powers of sorcery, used the entirety of his power, and summoned bolt after bolt of tyrannous storm. _He must bring down the dragon._

Herumor saw the ring of unnatural lightning catching up with him. In a few moments, bolts would storm down directly upon him. He had no chance.

"Gotcha now, slippery blighter!" said the Storm Knight, blasting twelve lightning bolts in a continuous line against Herumor. Ringlach burned with light as if a star…

 _Herumor was alive._

He looked upward. The Skies were a clear blue. He could see nothing below him. _Had he died? Was this wherever mortals went to on death?_

He was bucking- bucking furiously. He was on something. Slowly, the disorientation ceased, as Herumor found himself flying on Ringlach, mace raised high above his head. He frowned- _the mace was pulsating with sparks._

Slowly, he reached out with his mind. The Mace seemed to be tingling with sorcery. The Storm Knight's destructive power was sealed within it, crackling against the walls of the mace, which would not hold out long- and there was another kind of power- the substance that was restraining the lightning. The thing that had absorbed the sorcery.

Herumor felt this last tingle of power- faint, as if dormant for a long time. It was shallow, and there was little of it, and its restraining influence felt dark and abhorrent. _But- there was something admirable about it._ A rich, deep feeling. It gave Herumor satisfaction. Then, he was hit with the realisation.

 _This mace had been given to Herumor as a gift by Sauron himself for his labours in Rhûn and Harad. A token of his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Sauron himself had forged it- a pastime for him, perhaps- but an object of tremendous power for others._ An object of tremendous power.

A very tiny fraction of Sauron's sorcery rested within the mace, absorbing the lightning and shielding him. Herumor was alive due to this and this only. Ringlach, though the upper layer of her skin was slightly burned, kept flying on.

All of a sudden, Herumor knew what to do.

The Storm Knight cursed with a vile tongue. The Dark Lord had given him a mental lashing for concentrating the lightning at one spot. Herumor now seemed to be _flying upwards- towards the storm._

"If 'e wants it, let 'im have it" he thought, before bringing down lightning bolts with unscrupulous abandon, though aiming for Ringlach at all times.

Herumor lifted his mace up, and it absorbed the Storm Knight's destructive power- sparks came to his hands, but he did not care. He swung it here and there, halting every bolt.

"Gah!" shouted the Knight, bringing down more bolts. Herumor knew he could not reach all of them. Sending a prayer to Melkor, he lifted his mace up and pointed it skywards.

Thee prayer was to Melkor- but it was Sauron's power that answered. Each bolt switched trajectory and went for the mace, being absorbed or conducted away by the dark metal. Herumor was beyond surprised- but there was something else to do. _He needed to finish the battle._

" _ **Sûr, Ringlach, Sûr!"**_ Herumor shouted, and led the Dragon higher- directly into the eye of the storm. He held the Mace of Sauron up, imbibing the destructive might of the Lord of Storms who was cursing terribly, protecting himself and Ringlach from certain death.

The Sorcery of Sauron, though but a trifle in power and impotent now that its originator was gone, somehow held firm. Melkor knew well that that was the _beauty_ of the Maia's power- it overcame might greater than itself by exploiting weaknesses, and never truly ceased to achieve its aim.

Bolt after bolt rained down on Herumor, but the mace absorbed it all. Some of the more powerful bolts, which would not be held by the mace, were conducted away or deflected, leaving Herumor unharmed.

"Master- how is this possible? How is the wicked flibbertigibbet not dead?" questioned the Storm Knight in bewilderment.

" _It is because, you absolute moron, of the wielder of the storms. No control whatsoever- it was probable, inevitable almost- that he would escape alive due to the painfully simple propagation of your power. Tarry, now- there is nothing left but to wait and watch."_

The Storm Knight, upon this mental lashing, thrust forth his final effort, ignoring the veiled advice to attempt an attack of guile. The concentrated lightning came down as a beam of pure annihilation upon Herumor, who knew his one chance when he saw it.

" _ **Gukh!"**_ Herumor commanded, and Ringlach flew down in a straight, angled dive towards the remant of the Dol Amroth forces. The storm followed, the Mace now conducting away and reflecting all the bolts. They would be touching the ground in thirty seconds… ten… five…

With a cry of Exertion, Herumor hurled the Mace filled with The Storm-bringer's murderous might straight into the formation of the tower guard. With barely enough strength left, he touched the muscle on Ringlach's lower neck with his foot, causing her to pull out sharply and climb in the opposite direction.

Imrahil, blood-stained and battle-weary, having killed at least a hundred of Herumor's hordes, was saved by the Valar's grace in the nick of time, as he saw the harbinger of Dol Amroth's doom approaching.

Like a terrible weapon of Morgoth, a sorcerous blast aimed at the elven armies of the Noldorr in Beleriand, the mace of Sauron hurtled down, crackling with dark bolts- straight into the formation of the Tower Guard.

 _ **CRACK.**_ The dark mace made impact with the ground, and there was a noise like a thousand thunderbolts storming forth at once. There was an explosion of Malevolent Dark Power- pure annihilation.

The trapped lightning bolts spread out from the confines of the mace, blasting holes through the Tower Guards' armour and flesh. The sheer force of the explosion was enough to wipe out the centre of the formation, while emerging lightning bolts, as if seeking targets, hit the Tower Guards and other forces. Dol Amroth's fair army was destroyed.

Imrahil had no choice but to sound a full retreat for those few who remained. As for the Storm Knight, the Dark Lord quickly seized control of his will and had him dissolve his form- he vanished with a crack and resumed wandering as a spark among the clouds.

Seeing his enemy gone, Imrahil was forced to admit –though he wished to fight to the death- that it would be rational to retreat. Landroval made his way down from the clouds in which he had hidden, descending at a tremendous speed. _An archer had his dark arrow trained on the prince…_

Imrahil saw Landroval and stretched his hand out, and by luck, it caught the Eagle's talon. The arrow whistled past his ear, making a small scar on the side of his head. He saw that his hand was bleeding from where it had snagged the Eagle's talons. He looked down at the battlefield, vengeance in his eyes.

 _Curse you, Servant of Sauron- King Elessar will deal with you later. As for you, 'Storm Knight'- If you can hear this- know that Dol Amroth will be avenged, by the hand of its Prince._

Herumor descended majestically onto the battlefield, Ringlach exhausted but satisfied, seeing her master beaming at her. _He had done it. They had won._

* * *

 **Yep- Unlimited Power is a direct reference to Darth Sidious. I personally don't know what possessed my mind to slip it in.**

 **I had written this chapter for a long way, greater than half its length- before realizing that I was writing it in French. Completely ridiculous. This has never happened to me before.**

 **So, I _just had_ to delete it and write it all over again _en anglais_ before realizing I could have Google-translated it and copy-pasted it. Hence the delay, and lack of translation or explanation.**

 **A lot gets done in the next chapter- therefore, I apologise for the inevitable delay in its publishing.**


	11. The Terror of Tirion Part 1

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay- a lot gets done in this chapter, and it fought me all the way.**

 **Thanks to Comedy Monarchy for the two reviews- I'm glad this is educating you on the natures of the Valar, but if you wish a proper canonical account, I suggest you read 'Valaquenta' again, since this is slightly AU. Moreover- on your question about whether you are right to be fearful- oh, yes you are. In fact, you're not nearly frightened enough.**

 **Thanks to all the guests who reviewed.**

 **Et tu, Boromir- My intent was not to convert you to a Sauron fangirl, but oh well…**

 **SithKingOfAngmar- I must say, Angmar, your home, will play quite a part in this tale…**

 **Melkie's Draggie- I wonder why Melkor's fearsome dragons would like this story… could you get the baby balwoggies to review as well? I'm glad I have a favourable review from Angband.**

 **Makalaure- You, sir, owe me a hot, steaming cup of Earl Grey. I don't usually snort while drinking, but 'Moron'- too bad I've already thought up a name for the Storm Knight. I completely overlooked that!**

 **This chapter features a lot of Lord Mormanar, and I must say that despite being an OC he is incredibly hard to write. He was originally inspired partly by Agent Smith as I thought what would become of Arda if it had a villain as ruthless and efficient as him- but now I find it hard to thwart the temptation to turn him into a Middle-earthed version of Darth Vader. One must emphasise the absolute analytical logic that governs his actions, as well as display his absolute lack of emotion, even hatred.**

 **I have worked hard to make him a hated character, but I found that there are some admirers within the reviewers- apparently he seems a most impressive individual. Well, this chapter should fix that… *Ominous Drumming* Doom, Doom, Doom, Doom, DOOOOM.**

 **Chapter 10: The Terror of Tirion- A Second Darkening Part 1**

 _ **Mersday, 30 Foreyule, 1430 Shire-reckoning**_

 _ **OR Yuletide Eve, Fourth Age 10**_

" _ **One last great hurt to ignite the flames of war".**_

These were the words of my master that commanded my full attention for the past few months- of course, it is only rational to wait for the perfect moment to execute a perfect plan.

It is clear to me that it will be quite impossible for myself to persist in Valinor if I manage to accomplish this. I must depart to the shores of Middle-earth, but not before making a gash impossible even for those- forgive me- _Void-damned Valar-_ to heal.

The house of Finwë is embroiled in festivities for Yule, a festival which requires no introduction and indeed, _has no need to exist._ They will be complacent now.

The Valar have been rather cleverer than my dark master expected, and certainly more active. Oromë and Tulkas, their two champions, have been on my trail for the past ten years. The Elentarí has apparently become Lord of Mandos after my master took care of the weak-willed doomsman who could never quite control the fates despite his power. She and Irmo are currently searching for me in the impersonal, ready to extinguish me with their light- but they have not looked at one place.

 _One place neither physical nor impersonal. One place they have always overlooked- the Shadow World._

The Elder King, with his all-seeing eye and omniscient mind, has been the greatest challenge yet- perhaps my master underestimates him. He seems to possess every capability to ruin my plans, and is actively trying to do so- I must be wary of that one.

It has not yet crossed their minds to employ an Elf-lord in their search for me- for none can see into the shadow world without a certain degree of darkness in his heart.

The Vanyarin lords- perhaps Ingwë is powerful enough to breach the shadows that hide it from view- will find it difficult, as they lack shadow in themselves. The Telerin lords, though they do possess some of that darkness, lack the sorcerous might necessary. It is therefore the Noldor I have to fear- for they exist in both worlds simultaneously.

The Maiar, unlike the Valar, do not _completely_ lack the ability to see into the Shadow world- but it is only if a piece of Melkor's taint rests within them. Yea, one piece- and I am finished. But not.

" _ **It is time, Mormanar."**_

This simple thought of my master recalls me to my… duty. I feel a surge of Dark Power within my being. I am a swirling mass of darkness in the dark world hidden from the Powers- and now I grow. The shadows wrap themselves around me- they obey my every command. In the eye of the storm that is my being, a light pierces the darkness. It is a cold light, merciless- the very light of doom. It is the light that comes to the eyes of all right before their demise. _It is perfect._

I feel a ripple of _warmth_ coursing towards me- the Valar have sensed something wrong. I must be quick.

The tower of Tirion stands tall before me, Elves rushing in and out. I have noted the exit of a few, such as Artanis and Celeborn, along with Finarfin, the King, who is following them, and attempting _utterly superfluous_ talk.

The Tower is warded against darkness, another precaution taken by the Valar- but I WILL enter. Everything seems to have been made more difficult for me- but I would not exist if my master faced no challenges.

I have warned my eminent lord about the risks of this mission, and about how it could end all our aspirations if I am to fail- but he thinks it a necessary move. _And so, I will see it done._

The Armour my master made for me is bonded to the very darkness of my core, to the point that the armour itself is made out of shadows which shield my darkness. Every plate is of shadow made solid by the eternal power of my lord. I feel His dark power rippling around me as I descend to the ground. I will not use the main gate.

The two sentries at the gate I have chosen look utterly befuddled as _the shadows gather_ in front of them and take shape. I correctly assume they will be more than a little bewildered when the Tall, Dark, Death-bringer's form I assume appears in front of them.

I feel no hate, no apprehension. I derive no pleasure nor glee. I do not hope for success, but I ensure failure does not happen. As I grasp the hilt of my sovereign blade, the _Ainunarcar,_ the only sense that pervades my consciousness is one of calculated precision and decisiveness.

)-(

Voronwë, the faithful, laughed uproariously into the night. Eldalótë's crackling wit was too much for his usually impermeable self-control to bear. Panting and gasping for breath, he uttered: "Please, oh please stop! I cannot bear it anymore! Oh, for the love of Eru, to think that Voronwë the faithful, survivor of the wars against Moringotto, would be suffocated to death by his own aunt!"

The families of the Noldor were very closely-knit, and even though she had married in to the House of Finwë, Eldalótë was as an aunt to Voronwë. She was more than a sister to Artanis and loved her dearly, but had made quite clear her disapproval of the changes Middle-earth had wrought in her, turning her from Artanis to Galadriel. This frustration was vented out in the form of a hilarious mimicry of the Lady of Light, after she had gone out, of course.

Eldalótë looked down at her nephew with wide, innocent eyes, a doe-eyed look she had turned into an art form. Despite being her nephew, Voronwë was as susceptible, and took a few shaky breaths before continuing to laugh.

"Do you not wish more, my dear? I promise- Artanis will never get to know."

Voronwë sighed in exasperation, before saying- "Yea, 'tis too good of an opportunity to pass up! Imagine, the firecracker Artanis you told me stories of turning into this wise, and more-than-a-bit eerie 'Lady of Light' with prophecies of doom worthy of Mandos! And then to see it having actually happened- do go on!"

"Ah, 'tis her mastery in the arts of sounding eerie you wish me to extoll."

"Stop it, you two! Artanis is anything but eerie!" said Findis, Fingolfin's elder sister, although the defiant effect was slightly ruined by her own struggle to keep away a most persistent fit of the giggles.

"Grandmother-" began Voronwë, but it was at that moment that Eldalótë began.

"I think I shall say the first few words she said after returning from Lady Melian's."

"Yes, that would be perfect" said Anairë, wife of Fingolfin. She had always been particularly fond of Galadriel, and had treated her as her own daughter, often prompting overprotective reactions from Eärwen, who was her real mother. Unlike Eärwen, she had reprimanded Galadriel more than a bit sternly, with Finarfin's full backing, of course. It seemed she wasn't quite done with Galadriel yet.

"Anairë? You too, _Gwathel nin?_ A Elbereth Gilthoniel, this world is falling to the dogs!" said Findis.

"If it is, please tell me it's Oromë's dogs that the world is falling to. I never quite liked Sauron's." quipped Anairë.

"For the love of Eru, the Valar, the Valaraukar, the Maiar and the Magpies, hollen ech-ethîr!" shouted Voronwë, but this did exactly the opposite of his aim, as everyone laughed with even greater gusto. It was later that he realised he had ordered his elders none-too-politely to shut their mouths.

Finally, all went silent, as Eldalótë began. The air around her seemed to crackle with hidden power- she was, indeed, a wonderful actress.

" _Valinor is changed."_ she said eerily, an uncanny light flickering off her eye. _"I feel it in the water (It seems Ossë is feeling extremely frisky). I smell it in the air (I wonder when Yavanna last cleared her gardens of droppings)_."

Everyone clapped. She was doing it perfectly, and the extra remarks she added on were so characteristic of her that they were rolling around on the floor."

" _Much that once was, is lost…"_ she continued, as her audience slowly lost their struggles with laughter.

" _ **For none will now live to remember it."**_

The laughter died in an instant as a new, dark presence entered the room. Everyone immediately got up, their first instinct being to arm themselves.

The terrible form of Lord Mormanar gazed at the four elves with the same cold indifference he always bore. His aura of dread was almost tangible, and there was a thick, tar-like _darkness_ about him that seemed to rise up and suffocate them. He had left a bloody trail of silent death in his wake, noticed only now as a guard's body slouched down into visibility.

"Stand. Back." said Voronwë, pulling out his sword from where its sheath lay on the table. "You will not harm any of us, vile shadow!"

Memories of ten years past reached their minds, memories about the sudden disappearance of Tuor, the hero of Gondolin and Olwë, King of the Teleri. The Valar had been unwilling to reveal the nature of this new threat, many thinking it a fallen servant of Morgoth, and there had been fear at the time. Fear that had been washed away after ten years of happiness they were used to.

Mormanar made no retort, as that was _strictly unnecessary._ He saw the _Ellyth_ of Finwë's house rushing to the end of the hall to seize weapons from the statues of warriors there, and raised his dark palm. An unseen force surged past Voronwë and threw Eldalótë, Anairë and Findis off their feet.

"It is time, ellon of Finwë's house." said Mormanar, the black blade flickering to life from the hilt.

"I refuse to be defeated by an _Úmaia_ of Morgoth! By the light of the Valar, you will perish!"

"Cease your torrent, foolish Elda. No servant of Morgoth am I, and it is the light of the Valar that will perish."

Refusing to let him have the last laugh, Voronwë struck first, exactly what Mormanar was hoping to get him to do. The silver blade of the faithful was flicked aside as a fly, yet Mormanar did not attempt to counterattack, waiting for Voronwë to regain his balance.

The Elda started his dance, slipping gracefully into one of the many fighting patterns taught to the Noldor. Mormanar knew it and its possible counters well, since this knowledge had been woven into his very essence on his creation.

Voronwë was a skilful, yet conservative fighter, switching from stance to stance, pattern to pattern, hoping to surprise his opponent. Mormanar was a tad disappointed. He knew Voronwë to be attempting to gain time, and therefore, he finally broke his rhythm and attacked.

Mormanar had none of the flourishing grace of a Maia such as Eönwë and none of the mighty strength of a Maia of Tulkas or Oromë. Yet, what he had was perhaps deadlier, cold and precise calculation, dynamic strikes designed to push an opponent into a difficult position while wasting no time to attack.

Voronwë was being utterly defeated, Mormanar having grazed his side and slashed a scar across his face, when Findis, Anairë and Eldalótë joined his side, all armed.

" _ **Let them come."**_ thought Mormanar. _**"Let them all come."**_

)-(

The four Eldar retreat out of my reach, forming a protective semi-circle. They will make this all the harder. My master took care to intercept all the thoughts and pleas of help they tried to send to their relations, but I must be careful.

 _Ainunarcar_ flickers with darkness, hungering to bring death. Now, since my opponents have grown in number, I grow in power. It is a rule of my existence- the fëar of others fuel my might, and the greater the fëa, the stronger I become. Just as my master is strongly connected to the fëa of each of the Eruhini, I am connected to the might they carry. The greater my opponents, the stronger I become- but I must fight with greater skill.

In perfect synchronisation, they attack, the ellon's defensive strength making up for the fluid, powerful attack of the ellyth.

Perfect strategy is required, not a second is to be wasted. I exploit the disadvantage in having synchronised movements, that of attacking at the same time and in the same manner, parrying all three strikes with one swipe and then bringing it down upon the ellon, who blocks deftly.

The _Ellyth_ dance around me, searching for chinks in my armour, while the ellon distracts me. Twice I am forced to turn around and turn aside their blades, with the ellon at my back attempting to stab it. He succeeds the second time- this has gone on long enough.

I wait for the exact moment when two of the _ellyth_ will cross the same position, and swing with brutal might at the very moment. I score a deep wound on the arm of the first who raised her blade to block, and possibly a bruised ankle for the second I toppled.

I bring my sword down in a wide arc at the ellon's head, and he blocks, but he does not expect me to stab at him. The other elleth saves him at the last second.

I unleash a powerful combination, not my most skilful but quite adequate, and knock them both off their feet. The ellon's sword flies out of his arm into my awaiting fist. I seize it and crush it to shards.

I turn around to find the two I downed earlier in the process of attempting a slash, but I swing in the opposite direction, staggering them. I seize the blade of one in my fist and crush it as well, slashing hard at the second to grant it the same fat. I raise my sword to kill.

I did not expect the ellon to come sliding below me and block my strike with a dagger, but I do manage to parry the elleth who ill-advisedly attempts a decapitation.

I decide to use all of my dark skill. Her blade is beneath my foot within moments. My hand is on her neck, slowly draining her life. I see the ellon, having re-armed himself with a spear, attempting to attack my unprotected back. _I know just what to do._

)-(

Galadriel felt something was distinctly wrong when she saw Finarfin hanging back. Throughout the journey, he had harangued Celeborn about every little argument Galadriel had ever had with him. Typically of the Noldor, he had simply refused to believe that his daughter may have been wrong in certain instances. Celeborn had released more than a wary sigh- Finarfin had been cross-examining him for ten years, despite Galadriel objecting to it and even throwing a fit of fiery temper against her father.

Celeborn looked at his beloved, confusion on his expression.

" _Ada?"_

"Artanis, I- I don't quite think all is going to plan."

"What makes you think that, Ada?"

"Surely you have felt it too? I hear your abilities in the realm of fëar are prodigious, and indeed, you are a seer of great renown."

On Galadriel's confirmation that she had not felt anything wrong, he said: "Reach out with your mind, Artanis. Reach out to your home, and listen to Anairë, Findis and Eldalótë."

Galadriel extended her senses, and she felt something- she could not quite see what it was, however.

"What can you see?"

"I cannot tell, Adar- It seems my abilities are limited. I only see calm tranquil, _but there is something else I cannot see._ Perhaps I am not-"

"No, Artanis, you must try harder. Penetrate the veil, and tell me what lies beyond. I fear I sense- doom."

"I see nothing of doom, Adar, but I will- aaahh!"

The scream was like that of a caged animal, fighting to be let out. Galadriel fell down in a swoon, and Celeborn caught her. Finarfin rushed to her side.

"Oh, my dearest daughter, I never meant-"

"I saw- I saw the Void! The- eternal- void!" she managed, between gasping breaths. Celeborn gently settled her, calming her down. He pulled out a bottle of miruvor for her to drink, and his hand gently caressed the side of her beautiful face.

Finarfin frowned. "But why the pain, my dearest? Tell me someone is not hurting you, I pray. If he is, though- he shall feel the wrath of your _adar."_

She frantically shook her head. "Someone is not hurting me- but I feel someone is blocking my thoughts. There was a malevolent presence, the shadows of the veil it had cast seeming to come down to strangle me. Somebody tried to trap me within my own mind."

Finarfin frowned. He tried to send out a thought to Lady Elbereth, but he found he could not shape it. He thought to sing a hymn to reach her ears, but the song was devoid- _no, drained-_ of power.

"Artanis, GO. Find a Vala, a Maia, anybody- something has gone terribly wrong in our house. There is something dark here. I suspect it has something to do with what happened to Olwë."

"Adar, what is your intent? Tell me not that you are going to whip out your sword and rush to fight!"

"I must, Artanis, I must!" said Finarfin. The King of the Noldor looked panicked.

"No, Adar! No! It is not Finarfin I see here, 'tis Fëanor!" she said, in a desperate attempt to keep him safe. "The wisest of the Noldor would never go off into a straight battle foolhardily against a foe that is most likely beyond him!"

Finarfin looked at her then, and she saw sorrow of uncounted years in his eye- yet there was also a flame burning bright with decisiveness.

"Artanis, _elen-nin._ I abandoned my kin once. I cannot do so again. I let Fingolfin's folk suffer and die in the ice of Helcaraxë. I let Fëanor doom himself and his sons to an eternity of cursed torment. I sat here, enjoying a life of plenty, _like a coward!_ No, Artanis- I failed them once, and I will never fail the again."

Galadriel saw the conviction in his eye, and `said, with a steely look of her own: "Then I will go with you, Ada. I will never again leave you, even if it is you who chooses to walk into darkness."

Finarfin would have protested, but then he saw himself in Galadriel's eye. Her look was the same as his.

At that moment, Celeborn spoke.

"I shall take the responsibility of informing the Valar. Thoughts may be blocked, but I have not yet lost the agility of foot I gained in Doriath."

Galadriel and Finarfin were both pleased. The High King of the Noldor patted him on the shoulder, and Galadriel gave him a parting kiss.

He had made the decision to be separated from his wife to ensure her safety. He privately thought this indeed was a foe beyond them, and perceived that their only chance was in telling the Valar.

' _The faster I go, the sooner I will be able to return to my Galadriel'_ he thought, and rushed off to Aulë's mansion, which was the nearest.

)-(

Voronwë paled in shock at what he had just done. His knees crumpled, and he fell to the floor, unable to believe it. _He had killed his grandmother. His beloved grandmother._

He looked at Mormanar, so emotionless, so unfazed, and radiating an aura of cold indifference, and decided he hated him more than Morgoth. It would have been better if he was gloating in glee. It would have been better if he had shown mirth in the form of perverse, Melkian delight- _not this._

Mormanar gazed from beneath his mask as impassively as ever. It had been quite so simple, to turn around at just the right moment, which would have been difficult but was nothing to him due to his skill, and watch as the Ellon's spear struck the Elleth's heart instead of his own. Then again, he was thankful he lacked a heart- feelings were detrimental to his chances of success.

The _Ainunarcar_ sank deep, almost gently, into Voronwë's chest. Mormanar knew his fëa had been beaten enough to become subservient to him. No blood came out.

Yet, he had not expected Voronwë to gaze up, eyes still full of defiant scorn, and say, _"You will never win, nameless shadow. The void is your home- and by Eru, you will get back to it."_

That provoked an _extremely_ rare outburst of power, as he showed the Ellon how, despite his unwillingness, he could crush and swallow his fëa. The mask seemed to melt away, and Voronwë beheld the terrible light one saw only when one met his doom.

Mormanar smashed Voronwë's will into pieces, the fána he employed nothing but dust. He devoured the dying elleth's essence at the same time, using the power from Voronwë's to dominate it.

Power surged through him as he became greater, but so did a surprise flash of pain. He reeled from it- he simply did not allow himself to feel pain, shadow as he was, and yet he felt it.

He turned around violently, the swords of the two _ellyth_ lodged in the crack they had made in his armour.

He allowed them only a few seconds to rearm themselves before he slashed brutally with his black blade, intent on utterly crushing the two in front of him- _and they fought back._

Mormanar's iron will finally found his footing as he forced his sudden anger down. He reasoned that their righteous anger allowed them to fuel their strikes with the light of their souls, as that was the only thing capable of hurting him- the flame imperishable.

He brought the Ainunarcar up and down, blocking their strikes. They had scored quite a few gashes, but no more. Precise, calculated aggression was needed, and he did just that.

His blade met Eldalótë's twice. She attempted to keep him in a bladelock, but sensing his opportunity, he struck hard and fast. This pushed her back, and he reached forth with his merciless, iron hand to grab her by her beautiful, golden hair.

He yanked harshly, his terrible strength driving her into the path of Anairë's sword at _just the right moment._ He was mildly impressed how Anairë managed to deftly reverse her grip and catch one of Eldalótë's shoulders, her sword-arm supporting the other and only grazing it very mildly. Mormanar had not, however expected them to fall for it again.

Calling on the might of his lord, he lengthened the shadows of Ainunarcar, elongating the blade and struck like lightning. More vicious than any of the bolts of Manwë or even Melkor was his strike, but not out of hate- it was simply the best way to quickly end the encounter.

The two ellyth looked down- the dark blade had struck them both. It had not penetrated Eldalótë's back- the shadow seemed to lengthen itself like a chain, striking Anairë as well.

Anairë looked at Eldalótë, seeing tears flow down her beautiful cheeks. Three last words exited her mouth- _I have failed you._

The stricken wife of Fingolfin saw Angrod's wife begin to fade, and she felt Mormanar's iron grasp as it quenched any resistance, seized control, and barred passage to Mandos.

 _The Iron Grip would come to her next._

Then, she felt it. Finarfin burst in through the large window, his hands red from having climbed the tower. She loved him as a brother, even though he was her husband's. A last pang of sorrow found its way out, warning him to be careful.

 _But Finarfin was not alone._

The Doors to the hall burst open, revealing the shining white face of Olorín, his fëa burning with his inner fire, no longer masked. His eyes radiated a blazing power, ready to end the shadow who threatened Valinor. He carried Glamdring and his staff- but thunderbolts that flashed outside made apparent his power.

Mormanar wrenched his blade from Anairë, leaving her crumpled cold and seemingly-lifeless on the ground. Finarfin could see no wound- and that worried him.

" _Foul creature! You do not belong in Arda. You belong neither in the whole of E_ _ä_ _. I can see that you lack the secret fire. You are not of Eru's thought- and therefore, your place in the void. Go back to the shadows you came from!"_

Mormanar inwardly felt a slight flash of- _something._ He forced it quickly down- apparently his master had not been quite so thorough as he thought.

"Foul creature you call me, yet that I am not. Wisest of the Maiar you are called- I wish to see evidence of it. For now you strike me as one of the ordinary servants of the Valar- _deluded and blinded_ by emotion as your masters are, they cannot see true _meaning."_

"It is you who are meaningless, shadow of the void! In the name of Eru, if you will not yield, _I shall send you to the abyss myself!"_

Mormanar called the Ainunarcar to life again- whereas it seemed before almost solid, now the black shadows were flowing within the boundaries of the blade. It seemed _sentient,_ somehow- and yet it was the same as Mormanar. Olórin found then that it _was_ Mormanar, an extension of his essence.

" _We shall see."_ he said ominously, before holding himself in stance, prompting the Maia who was formerly Gandalf to do the same.

 **)-(**

 **This chapter was getting extremely long, so I had to stop right there. Don't worry, I have the rest written down, and will be updating soon.**

 **Eldal** **ó** **t** **ë** **\- The wife of Angrod, the second son of Finarfin. Lingered in Valinor.**

 **Anair** **ë** **\- The wife of Fingolfin. Lingered in Valinor on Fingolfin's request.**

 **Voronw** **ë** **\- Son of Aranw** **ë** **, who was the son of** **Í** **rim** **ë, the fourth child of Finwë. Tried to do an Eärendil and sail to Aman to get help from the Valar against Morgoth, but was defeated and tried to return home. Was shipwrecked by a storm but survived and was washed up to the city of Vinyamar. There, he told Tuor his tale. Some accounts say he later sailed with Eärendil. I am accepting these accounts as true when it comes to this story.**

 **Findis- Second Child of Finwë, first child with Indis. Lingered in Valinor.**

 _ **Gwathel nin (Sindarin)-**_ **My sister**

 _ **A Elbereth Gilthoniel (Sindarin)-**_ **Oh Varda Starkindler**

 **hollen ech-ethîr (Sindarin)- Shut your mouths!**

 **Mersday (Shire-reckoning)- Thursday**

 **Foreyule (Shire-reckoning)- December**

 **Tirion- Fortress of the Noldor in Valinor**

 **Moringotto (Quenya)- Morgoth**

 **Ainunarcar- Render of Divinities**

 **Ellon- Male Elf**

 **Elleth- Female Elf (Plural Ellyth)**

 **Adar (Quenya)- Father. 'Ada' is a short form, used affectionately.**

 **Elen-nin (Sindarin)- My little star**

 **Artanis- Galadriel**

 **Translations for all the previous chapters will be added to them shortly. I promise to update soon. Till then,** _ **Hannon le.**_


	12. The Terror of Tirion Part 2

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **A/N: Here we are, the second part as promised. This chapter has something quite interesting- a peek at the** _ **Dark Lord's**_ **own point of view. In the previous chapter, I had wished to provide a flourishing description of Tirion, but since I decided to write from Mormanar's point of view, I had to omit it. It is unlike him to note the superfluous details of appearance when there is a job to be done.**

 **As always, thanks to Comedy Monarchy for reviewing. I'm glad Mormanar seemed like an assassin simply doing his job, since that is the effect I wished to produce. There is always a multitude of thoughts running in his dark mind, but his analytical nature compels him to reveal only the essentials necessary for the job on hand- everything else is** _ **strictly unnecessary.**_ **However, as for the Middle-earthed Darth Vader issue, I finally lose the battle and give up in this one, allowing him to go into Darth!Mode (Term).**

 **This is the last chapter of Part One of this story. I wish to thank all who reviewed and I hope you enjoyed the story so far.**

)-(

I am not quite content with how this has unfolded. I did a job that was not quite perfect, but satisfying enough for my master. With every new thought, however, He asks for more blood. And, to add to my ever-growing list of problems, there is a Maia to face- and a particularly potent one, at that.

" _ **Their fire has been quenched by years of peace and plenty- four is not enough!"**_

My master's words ring in my mind as I swing my sovereign blade to stay the strikes of the Maia in front of me.

It is to my knowledge that he is fully capable of not only hurting but ruining me. That- I beg forgiveness, master- Eru-cursed Flame Imperishable burns very bright in him, one of the very brightest, I think.

He is as cunning as he is skilled, preferring to keep _me_ at bay while hurling sorcery at me. Lightning bolts more potent than any I have yet been subjected to repeatedly strike at my armour, but they cannot pierce your shadow, master.

With roared incantations in Valarin he flings a barrage of that already thrice-cursed fire at me. I however, am more than up to the task. For was this not why you forged my sword, master?

You will be glad to know that the Ainunarcar holds firm, dissipating every fireball at its cold touch. _At my cold touch._

And then, two Elves join the fight. The High King, having now gotten up from his examination of the elleth I felled, lets out a roar of rage and assaults me frontally.

His wise and powerful daughter attempts a more strategic approach, attacking me from the back. While attempting to strike me, she sends spells over my mind, attempting to coerce me into drowsiness and fatigue.

 _Fatigue? I feel none. My iron will which you have gifted me holds._

The Maia attempts a new tactic, singing a song of power. It is mighty indeed, and I feel myself pushed back.

Unfortunately, master, my lack of inhibitors in the form of feelings and emotions has proven to be somewhat of a curse. You know well that I am unable to sing. Hence, I thank you for giving me the power to resist song.

The wisest of the Maiar stands back, showering me with fire, lightning and the winds of Manwë, magic fuelled by his mighty song, while the High King crosses swords with me up front.

For one not aligned to fighting, his skill is tremendous- _but so is mine._ I see he has practiced, practiced with tremendous vigour after his brothers left for Middle-earth- but despite his might, he is no Fëanáro.

Your tutelage has shown me that the swordmasters of the House of Finwë rely on parries made at right angles to quickly adjust their positions and attack before their opponents can. Strike like fire, flow like water. His daughter, on the other hand, fights defensively. She also sings a song of power, and even I must admit it is a beautiful thing.

I feel their Valarin masters having been informed. I feel the aura of the King's daughter glow brighter- her husband is getting near.

Master, my calculation forewarns that this is impossible unless you intervene- do what you must, my mighty lord.

)-(

 **And so I shall. Fight, Mormanar, fight! It is time to unleash your full skill.**

 **I see Manw** **ë Súlimo having descended from Ilmarin, Aulë at his side. I notice the smith has brought a hammer. No doubt they have informed the rest of the Valar. My apprentice does not have much time.**

 **This is where I intervene. I see the Elder King raising his hands to the air- curse him and his spells! Wind-king he is called, for he can dissolve his form and merge his essence with his winds, and instantly transport himself to whatever destination he wishes. The only other with this ability was Melkor, who could thusly manipulate darkness.**

 **Persistent as he is, he has managed to learn how to transport other Valar along with him as well. But no matter- I, not Melkor, am Dark Lord. I am now master of the darkness. If I cannot use it to convey myself, I scan use it to halt others.**

 **I see Manwë spreading his essence out to the winds, an inner, white light emanating from him- and then I strike. My shadows extend forth and drown the light. Jarring darkness forces the greatest of the Valar down, and out of the impersonal.** _ **This is my realm, Manwë. One does not simply manipulate my realm.**_

 **His fána reappears and he falls down with a satisfactory gasp of pain. Then, I see Varda Elentarí descend.**

 **Hate it as I might, Love happens to be the most powerful form of magic in Arda. This** _ **emotional, uncontrollable, utterly contemptible**_ **phenomenon drowns the most powerful dark magic. It is the only thing capable of healing Melkor's discord.**

 **The strength of the love between Súlimo and Elentarí is possibly the greatest on Arda. The latter I hate, and have good reason to do so- undoubtedly, she will be a thorn in my side, and she chooses to start now.**

"Mānawenūz, my beloved, no! You cannot overcome this on your own!" **she says, voice full of concern, curse her.**

"I must, Vāradōz, I must! My beloved, a shadow threatens Valinor. I must end it."

" _No. We_ must end it. I will not let you be hurt again, Mānawenūz. I sense a dark presence, and I will not let it touch you. Let it touch me if it wants. You are worth risking oblivion, my love." **Eru damn their horrid, ridiculous,** _ **useless**_ **love!**

"It is too dangerous for you, my love! What if the darkness strikes you next? No, my love, I shall do it myself. I shall not see you hurt." **At least this tomfoolery is giving more time to Mormanar.**

"Mānawenūz, there is only one way to do this and you know it. As always, we must do it together. Use my light to penetrate the darkness!"

 **He looks at her, still not willing, and sees the light of the stars burning in her eyes with a fierce determination. He places a kiss to her cheek (Cursed be these superfluous gestures) and wraps her in his arms.**

 **The Cunning of Súlimo is great, as he calls the winds to himself and uses his spouse's light to scatter my shadows. Either one of them is fully capable of defeating me at the moment (though not without injury), and against both, I am as nothing. Cursed be their love, that amplifies their power so.**

 **I make a last attempt to severely harm one of them, but Súlimo I cannot touch due to Varda's protection. I attempt to strike the Elentarí, but although I can hurt her, I will come off the worse. It pains me to attempt to touch her.**

 **Therefore, I do what I can. I retreat, and extend forth to the Tower of Tirion. I see Mormanar's battle against his foes- but that is not my target. My fëa brushes against the mind of each occupant in the tower- simpletons, their minds are as open books for me to read and manipulate. I search and search, until I find a mind more guarded, more resistant.** _ **I have found her. She has woken up from sleep.**_

 **She hears the noises of clashing swords coming from above her. She is hesitant whether to go or to escape. Part of her wishes to remain in her room.**

 **It is clear to me that the person Celebrían cares for the most is clearly her Elrond. Said Peredhel, I see, is in the Halls of the Weak, Unassuming and** _ **Utterly Useless**_ **Vala I have taken such care to depose, talking with Nelyafinwë Maitimo- an Uncle to him, if his brother Kánafinwë is to be considered his foster father.**

 **She is aware that he departed for the Halls, though that was quite some time ago.** _ **I must convince her to go upstairs.**_

 **I create the perfect mental image, that of her precious Peredhel in pain. I fashion his image being dragged by my apprentice into eternal oblivion. I think of what he would speak- I know the way of these confounded ratlings aligned to the light, and I know he would never send his wife a plea for help.**

" _ **Celebrían, Go! Save yourself! I know not how much longer I can hold the darkness!"**_ **the vision says, and satisfied, I send it to her mind. I relish the panicked look on her face, as she does the exact thing I had hoped for- she seizes a sword and runs upstairs. Straight into the hands of my apprentice.**

 **I feel the Valar, having completely destroyed my shadows. They will reach in a moment. Aulë is with them.** _ **Time ceases to be your ally, Mormanar.**_

)-(

The terrible black flash of the Ainunarcar struck Galadriel's eyes as the Black Blade clashed with Glamdring, its wielder trying to kill Olórin in one blow. Finarfin lay clutching his arm, his sword lying feet away.

The Noldorin King's duel with Mormanar had unfolded as if a tale of legend, a clash of titans both regal and terrible to witness. Neither Gandalf nor Galadriel had seen such skill on display in a long time.

Aided by Gandalf's magic and the mighty song he sang that imbued Finarfin's heart with warmth and fire, the King had fought tooth and nail, but Mormanar had responded with superior riposte.

The King had struck powerfully like the leaping tides and waves of the sea when attempting to throw his opponent off, and at times subtly, like many a flickering tongue of fire, when he tried to penetrate his foe's defence.

The Might of the Doombringer, however, was nothing short of tremendous. Raising a black palm to deflect and at times absorb Olórin's sorcery, drowning it in the void at his core, he struck one-handed with his Black Blade. Thrice he lashed out at Galadriel, and thrice she fell, the third time with a scar on her forehead.

A heated battle he had fought with the King, and try as he might, the Lord of the Noldor simply could not breach the Lord Doombringer's iron defence. Mormanar, ever the strategist, had willed more spikes and serrations onto the edge of his blade, the black matter flowing as a liquid as the side on which there were serrations changed in the blink of an eye.

Finarfin simply did not have the impossible strength and speed necessary to break through this deadly trap. His sword was not being deflected at right angles. It seemed _horrible,_ the way it came back at him.

At that moment, Olórin had made an ill-advised attempt at unleashing a full storm of sorcery upon Mormanar, and the Doombringer had summoned forth shadows from the palm of his gauntleted hand. The void of shadows swallowed up Olórin's magic, and contrary to what any might have expected, spit it back out as a wave of darkness, hitting Finarfin and disarming him.

The King had had the good sense to immediately fall to the ground, although a thrust from Mormanar did manage to pierce his right forearm.

From where he had fallen, the King had first experienced pain, but it quickly receded, followed by a strange numbness. There had been no blood. The wrist simply felt infirm, as if sapped of all energy and vitality. Ever resourceful, he pulled out a tight cloth from his robe, and with a bit of wood, tied it firmly around his wrist as support- he could still fight.

Lord Mormanar, currently, was engaged in utterly disenfranchising the former Istar in melee combat. Olórin was forced to raise his staff several times to block the Black Sword, which hammered at Glamdring with strength superior to his own. His song ran mightily as ever, but Mormanar was using what measure of power he had to resist it. Although he could not choke it or drown it, he managed to keep it at bay.

"Aaahh!" exclaimed the Maia, as Mormanar unleashed a ruthless set of attacks that ended with Glamdring on the ground and a cut on the former Wizard's face. The Doombringer raised his ironclad foot, but Olórin saw it, and with a quick incantation, summoned his sword to his hand. Mormanar had slashed his sword at the next second, the Ainunarcar blocked inches away from Olórin's neck by Glamdring. Both pushed. Mormanar was stronger.

 _Something Changed._

Mormanar felt distinctly uncomfortable- in fact, he was in pain. Something or someone extremely powerful had arrived. This presence burned with light, light that was dissipating Mormanar's shadows.

 _The Valar were there!_

Olórin felt the presence of his master, Manwë, and rejoiced. He thrust a hand out, an invisible force breaking contact between the blades and forcing Mormanar back.

' _My lord_ _Mānawenūz, here!' roared his mind, and the message was sent._

Celeborn burst into the room, sword at the ready. He stood beside Galadriel, snarling with controlled rage. Mormanar was surrounded. Finarfin had stood up. The point of his sword was at Mormanar's back. The Ainunarcar flashed wildly, as its wielder's face darted from Enemy to Enemy.

"Arōmēz, Tulukhastāz, TO ME!" shouted a deep voice, and Mormanar knew that the Elder King was there.

It was time to try out a new tactic. A cry of exertion, and Mormanar was on the ground, unaware of what hit him. Empowered by his lord's presence, the former Istar unleashed all of his power.

Music both beautiful and terrible filled the hall, as Mormanar suddenly got up and began thrashing about. His towering form was encased in a thick net of light. Olórin was out in front, on his face a look of pained concentration, as he chanted the powerful verses of the song known as 'The Word of Silence'.

Jets of pure light, light that made up his maiarin essence, were erupting from his hands, shaping themselves and latching onto Mormanar. The Ainunarcar flashed almost wildly as it was slashed to and fro, its wielder trying, somehow, to find a way to break through the net. The connecting cords of light were severed where the dark blade struck, but there were only so many nets the blade could cut. The maia constantly released forth light, resculpting the net by the second to keep his adversary restrained.

The Valar were coming! The Shadow would be ended!

)-(

" _ **The Valar are coming. Your end approaches."**_ The Cold words of his master resounded in Mormanar's ears. This was to be his end, then. The Doombringer felt an inward pang, a flash of- _emotion._

Hate? Anger? Sadness? Nay, 'twas none of these.

It was- _refusal._

He had just one chance, and he knew it. As the Valar neared, he felt power flood his form once more- power as he had never before wielded. Their power fuelled his strength. He came up with a last, final strategy to somehow scrape out victory.

Olórin certainly was suspicious when he saw his adversary's shoulders slump. The Ainunarcar flickered and died. It seemed as if his enemy was defeated- but something told him it was not so.

However, on seeing no reaction, he sang the last verses of his song, and bound the cords of light firmly together. Lifting Glamdring from the floor, he pointed it straight, and slowly, cautiously made his way towards Mormanar.

 _That one moment, the single moment of silence after the song, had been all he had needed._

There was an eruption of swirling shadows, and the next thing he knew, Olórin was pinned against a wall, unable to move. He tried to chant once more his song, but found an icy, invisible hand on his throat, choking it down.

Mormanar was resurgent. His armour was rent and burnt through from having burst through the confines of the net of light. His features, though battered, seemed to glint with an evil light.

One swipe of his sword, and the ceiling came down, the debris forcing the Maia down.

Celeborn knew his only chance was to defend, and wait for the Valar. Finarfin, however, was a Noldo, and Noldor, as ever, never wait for anybody.

"Lord Finarfin, No!" shouted Celeborn.

" **Utúlië n'aurë!"** roared Finarfin, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Mormanar swiftly countered, and with the blow came an unseen force that knocked Finarfin- _and Celeborn-_ off their feet.

A dark palm was raised, and Galadriel slammed to another wall. From where he lay under the debris, Olórin contemplated whether to disincarnate and get out of his plight. He might be able to reincarnate in time and return, in a better position. However, something held him back- it was the knowledge that _something terrible could happen in his absence, whether fleeting or not._

 _No. He needed to protect Finarfin. He needed to ensure the safety of Galadriel, and of Celeborn, until the Valar came._

)-(

The former Istar did not know that the Dark Lord was doing his utmost to delay the arrival of the Valar. The entirety of what power he had was being thrown at them to delay their advance.

Nahar, the steed of Oromë, had been put into an enchanted stupor which only few could break as a precaution. The great hunter thus had to make a detour to first deliver his beloved horse to Irmo's care before he could come on the scene.

A few of Tulkas' maiar had been struck down by shadow. While not dangerous in the least, it had heightened the rage of the Vala of War, but also impeded his advance as he took pains to ensure they were safe.

Finally, the entirety of the fearsome sorcery of the new Lord of Darkness was being directed towards the Elder King and his Queen, somehow, anyhow, trying to delay their advance.

Varda scattered the shadows as if they were but flies, but Manwë's winds were impeded by the darkness of the void. There were other things too- a biting cold greater akin to the evil frost of Utumno, a lashing fire that was sent at them periodically that the Elder King was forced to scatter, and a stinking, utterly horrible dark smoke that enveloped them.

The Dark Lord, however, was no match for either of the mightiest of the Valar. They walked through the smoke, their light piercing through, and weathered the storm with seemingly effortless ease. The Dark Lord knew it was not quite as effortless as it seemed, and sent to their minds visions of horrors past and prophesised. They saw the bloody reaches of Angband's prisons, the murky halls of Utumno's torture cells, the ensorcelled storm of fire unleashed from Barad-dûr- but wills of iron they had, and wavered not.

Mormanar was aware his time was running out. Yet now, with the Valar so close and still so far, he wielded power greater than ever he had.

His dark might rippled in waves of cold, pitiless scorn as he clashed blades with Finarfin and Celeborn. His concealed power unleashed, he was as a storm of death. Galadriel was subjected to repeated torment as that same, invisible force threw her from wall to wall, as the Dark blade clashed with Finarfin's and threw him staggering back.

A tremendously fast-paced exchange ensued, Mormanar now the aggressor, ending with a brutal whip-lash stroke made after a turn that cut a scar across Finarfin's chest and threw him bleeding to the ground.

Mormanar raised his blade, and pointed directly at Celeborn, who was swept off his feet. The Dark Entity, finally forced to jump, pushed himself off the ground with force, and aimed what would have been a painful impact at Finarfin.

 _The Door opened._

Mormanar saw it and made a split-second adjustment, throwing his sword at the newcomer, who gave a shriek and ducked. It sliced off a few strands of her silver hair and came spinning back.

The Doombringer instantly recognised his master's hand at Celebrían's presence, and sprang to obliterate her. She was his new target.

The wife of Elrond, who was scanning the room frantically for her husband, and staring with shock at her mother, Galadriel, who was pinned to the wall, was forced to raise her blade and block the strike.

Mormanar struck with a vicious, lashing quality, intent on utterly destroying her. It was to Celebrían's credit she did not get annihilated. Finally, he brought his sword up with such force that it forced her hand up as well. He quickly changed grip, to cut her hand off…

And was blocked.

Finarfin was still standing, somehow. As was Galadriel, who, released from his grip, had thrust her sword painfully into the collar of his neck.

' _ **Naïve as you are, Lady of Light, you know not where to strike. That would have been lethal- if I was but a creature of flesh and blood.'**_

His master knew well the limitations of flesh, and had therefore not clothed him in a body of such raiment and feature. Nay, bound to his armour he was, with no limitations- a pure shadow of darkness.

She should have struck near the heart, and spread her essence around the root of his being- only by light could he be vanquished.

This enabled Mormanar to turn sharply around, depriving her of her sword, and with buffeting, dark winds, he threw her to the ground.

 _The Valar were almost there._

Mormanar was aware of many things- that he had to somehow finish the High King in severely limited time. That he had to incapacitate his daughter such that she was not able to impede him. That he had to remove her beloved _mongrel_ from his sight for he was an _annoyance._ And that he had to deal with this whelp of Galadriel and Celeborn as his master saw fit.

He was also aware of the Maia he had seemingly crushed, and how he had steadily been diverting a large flow of power filled with hope and strength towards the Eldar, essentially rescuing them from his strikes. _The Valar were nearing._ He saw the Maia, and regarded how the debris was sliding off as if on its own. He saw Olórin rise seemingly rejuvenated, ready to fight once more now that Mormanar was aware of him. He timed it directly for the maia's re-entry into the fray.

In that day, in that hour, on the Tower of Tirion set afire into a multitude of red hues by the setting sun yet darkened by the forces of doom, Mormanar fought with the greatest skill he ever had fought. It was as a blur, as reality, to him, passed into the steady, unending rhythm of the void.

 _Clang. Crash. Swiff. Clang. Crash. Clang. Ssssss. Clang-clang-kkkhhhttt!_

Mormanar and the Ainunarcar were one, Olórin realised. The two were the same darkness, the blackness of the void that had come to devour them. The Doombringer's sword blazed with _unlight_ as it was slashed through the darkened, stagnant air, crashing with irresistible force onto first Finarfin's, then Celebrían's blade, the shadows accompanying it blasting them to and fro.

The one who was until recently Gandalf was barely aware of time, so slowly and yet so quickly it seemed to fly, and within moments, the Black Sword was at his heart. He pushed his fear away and swiftly turned it aside, but _it was impossible._

 _What could he do against such a need, such a desperate need to kill?_

The walls of the Hall were broken apart as shadows, visible and black, rained down as if thick, choking winds and swirled around Mormanar. Rifts opened where they turned their eyes and out poured tendrils of the void- sentient darkness clawing its way to any form of life to latch onto and devour.

However, there was something _else._

Above the storm of darkness, another one brewed. This one was a thing of light, of hope and yet of swift demise to evil.

An immeasurably mighty song pierced the air. Sung by a deep yet soft voice, it was clear as the purest wind, and more powerful than the mightiest hurricane. It also had an air of justice about it- it not only sounded of burdens to be lifted and happiness to be revived, it also rang a sound of light extinguishing shadows, of bringing destruction to darkness.

Fuelled by the song, a true hurricane did form above their heads in the sky, winds of pure power buffeting them different ways. Mighty bolts of lightning more potent than any other possible in Arda blasted out of the storm and struck near Mormanar, who was momentarily stymied.

There were more voices added to the song. At a feminine, truly melodious note, the light of the Valacirca was visible as the stars came into view much quicker than usual, shedding their glorious light solely on Tirion and dispelling Mormanar's shadows.

A deep, resonant voice joined them, the earth seeming to raise itself and form a wall around them. Fire leaped up from newly-opened chasms. This fire did not hurt the earth, but it did indeed have the power to hurt- the target of these fires had currently formed a cocoon of shadows around himself to fend it off.

Mormanar's time was up- and he struck like a tyrannous storm. The Ainunarcar flew out at speeds impossible. It was sometimes swung, sometimes thrown, always returning to its wielder's hand.

Mormanar, his limbs tied to the task at hand, was somehow using his mind to manipulate hwt shadows were left. Rifts opened up at random places to suck his opponents in. Many copies of the dark blade, all capable of cutting as well as the other, emerged from thin air and flew towards his opponents.

In the middle of it all, the Dark Lord's apprentice fought with might more fearsome than that of Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, when he struck down Fëanáro.

What was left of the walls was rent apart as a mighty spear, forged fully of _pure (damned and cursed) light,_ blasted a path through, narrowly missing Mormanar. _Oromë was here._

Footsteps pounded the stairs, a mighty presence easily discernible- _Tulkas was here._

Options having run out, Mormanar went for the kill.

 _Wham!_ Glamdring was blasted far, far into the distance;

 _Crack!_ The staff crushed underfoot;

 _Slam!_ Celeborn blasted away in what direction he cared not;

 _Aaargh!_ Olórin screamed as Mormanar tried to rend his body apart with consuming darkness, nearly succeeding.

 _Clang. Clang. Clang!_

Finarfin was almost completely overwhelmed by the onslaught of doom incarnate, being thrown aside.

Mormanar went for Celebrían, who defiantly raised her sword. She would hold out, or go down fighting. The Dark Lord's apprentice had no intention to see the former happen, and finally, his attacks were fuelled by rage brought on by urgency. As he gave into that _cursed emotion_ out of necessity, finally letting down his iron restraint, he struck with a vengeance, smashing Celebrían's sword this way and that.

A clawed hand was thrust out behind him, and Galadriel was raised into the air like a marionette. A waving motion and more debris spilled on Olórin, who was spent, and Celebrían knew it was do or die.

The Door burst open, the Mighty Tulkas bursting in to crush his foe. The wall at the other end was blasted away, shoing a resplendent Oromë on the other side.

A blade in Mormanar's path blocked his strike on Celebrían, but the doombringer used what shadows were left to crush it. He struck out with his fist, hit her to the ground, and the sword followed, like a strike of lightning…

 _And hit._

" **Nay!"** was heard the bellow, as Tulkas' great fist smashed into the Doombringer, ripping apart his armour and smashing him into the wall. Oromë raised his spear of light, aiming directly for the shadow's heart.

' _He, he, heh, heh, ha, hah, haah…"_ Came the cold, cruel laugh from Mormanar's mouth. It was not a sound produced by Mormanar, but by the Dark Lord. Manwë and Varda came up then, and saw the terrible sight- Celebrían was bent over crying over a supine form that was glaringly familiar- _Finarfin's._

The High King of the Noldor had used his body to block Mormanar's strike when his sword could not. Varda rushed over immediately, trying to save the Noldorin King. Oromë looked at Manwë, who radiated an air of justice, nodded his head once, and let fly. The Light of the Elder King restrained all of Mormanar's power, in a much mightier net than Olórin's.

The Doom of the Doombringer was nigh.

A void, a rip in the fabric of reality, appeared directly above Mormanar. The battered shadow's armour faded away into nothingness- and in the split second that the void persisted, _Manwë could see no body_.

The Darkness stretched wider still, and swallowed up the hilt of the forsaken sword, before abruptly closing up. Oromë's spear disappeared as well. Nobody knew if it had hit Mormanar or not- there was an anguished scream, resisting against immeasurable pain, and the void, pushed to collapse by the Valar.

 _Finarfin saw hope. He had no power, no energy left, but he saw hope. The Lady Varda was near. Yet, there was something else- a dastardly green light that haunted his eyes. It encompassed everything. He hoped the Elentarí was not going away- yet there she was, slipping slowly and slowly further. Please, hope, do not go away…_

A dark, spiritual hand grabbed onto his heart, crushing that hope within seconds as his fëa was wrenched away. He was being torn apart from the inside, It was the end for him, and he knew it. He hoped Anairë had been saved from that same, horrible fate…

)-(

The Dark Lord regarded his newly burnt, scarred hand with almost scientific curiosity. It had been a much closer shave than he had wished. The shattered remains of Oromë's spear of light lay at his feet. He had caught the weapon as it had come through the void he had opened, gaining the mastery and breaking it, but not before it burnt his hand.

 _It was not as if it caused him any pain. He simply refused to feel pain- it was detrimental._

He could regulate what he felt as he wished, such control he had on his fëa. Mormanar had tried to come to him- he would see later whether the enforcer he had worked so hard to create lived or not; if not, he could wait for his power to return to him, and start anew. He could wait all the years of the world if he wished.

For now, another matter had his full attention- The Matter of Middle-earth.

 **End of Part One- The Shadows Gather**

 **Part Two- Rise of the Fell Kingdom will be out soon.**

 **)-(**

 **Translations (please forgive the lack of accent marks due to my tiredness)**

 **Utulie n'aure (Quenya)- Day will come again**

 **Aromez (Valarin)- Orome**

 **Tulukhastaz (Valarin)- Tulkas**

 **I have also invented 'Varadoz' (Varda). When one regards the etymology of the other wrds, 'Varadoz' sounded like the most likely option for 'Varda' in Valarin.**


	13. Interlude: Nuruhuinëonyárë

**Interlude for The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 _ **Nuruhuinony**_ _ **á**_ _ **r**_ _ **ë**_ _ **-**_ **He rises to Fight for one last time**

 _ **All that is dark is not evil,  
Not all those who stray are forsaken;**_

 _ **The fell light of revenge does not waver,  
Not until the cold due is taken.**_

 _ **From the ashes a shadow shall be woken,  
the walls of the Void he shall ford;**_

 _ **Renewed shall be might that was broken,  
The Vanquished rises as Dark Lord.**_

It had previously occurred to him, but it was still a great surprise nonetheless. He remembered- how long past he had forgotten- that this hunch had once been his greatest fear.

He was utterly broken, thoroughly vanquished- and yet, he could feel.

 _The Void was sentient._

It _felt._ It was not an emptiness without. He knew it not to be so, and that had fuelled his fear of it. He had suspected Dark Tendrils of pure _unbeing,_ which latched onto a fëa and ripped it apart- and the process would continue for eternity.

The Void, meant to be a prison, was anything but that. It was the Valar's great foolishness that they could not see it as aught else.

The more power they poured into it in the form of Ainurin prisoners, the morepotentits darkness became. Therefore, it _hungered._

As it ripped apart the fëar of its prisoners, it absorbed their thoughts- until it _became them._ An entity of tremendous power, filled with thought of discord solely.

However, the void was _without._ It could not directly influence Arda and Eä. Many fëar it housed, one of which is not necessary to mention. There were also Úmaiar of varying power- these were _pure shadows,_ never to take physical forms.

The fëar of the Dark Vala's Valaraukar and other monstrosities were kept in restraint by Námo's mind, the husks of their bodies sealed away in Mandos. However, there were some Mandos could not contain, being a part of the physical world- these were the nameless ones. The Void was slowly absorbing them into its own.

In the darkest part of the void was Ungoliant. Lacking light to devour, she had attempted to devour the void's darkness- a move which resulted in catastrophe for her. The void is not devoured- _it devours._ Ungoliant, of the same fabric as the Void, was not even ripped apart due to her inherent similarity with it. Nay, it was easier than that- _she had been assimilated._

The Void needed a champion. One to wield its darkness. One to bring pure annihilation to the world.

Melkor was the obvious choice- he was the only one to have resisted. His fëa had been ripped apart- _but he had miraculously managed to reorder it._

The madness had been pulled away, his mind reorganised. He hated the Valar more than the capability of any other. He had even retained his form, chained with Angainor as he was.

He was a suitable candidate to furnish with terrible power and release unto the world, to bring the Dagorath. However, that had to wait. It must wait for the Kingdoms of Men to end. That was a long ways away.

The problem was that the Void needed its champion NOW. Not all the Valar, it seemed, were blind to its- _opportunities._

A New Dark Lord had risen, one far more capable and far more deadly than any to have scourged the world. He recognised the Void for its infinite power. He would have the void collapse on itself to gain that power, rendering it truly _nothingness._

Even now, his chief servant was leeching off that power, managing to harness and control ( _control!)_ the void's darkness. The Void recognised that the Dark Lord had created this servant to eventually take all the power of the void, as he could not, and _control_ it, causing the Void itself to collapse along with all in it.

 _The Void did not want that._

The choice of Melkor would have one fallacy- _fear._ Even after all these ages of imprisonment, Melkor still feared the Void- and rightly so. It had ripped him apart, and continued to do so every single moment.

Melkor, though he would greedily claim the Void's power, would not use it to its full potential. He would fear his own power.

There existed another great flaw- his _hatred,_ and _anger,_ used often to advantage and more often to disadvantage. The New Dark Lord would crush him in terms of strategy, for he had patience and was unburdened by emotion.

The Void needed one as calculating, as cold and ruthless, as its champion to contend with the Dark Lord- and the perfect candidate presented himself.

 _He was not always so. Once a fiery spirit, creation at its core. He had had one of the most beautiful f_ _ë_ _ar among his kind- even more so than quite a few of the Valar._

History would tell what later happened. Corrupted to the Dark Path. Subjected to pain from the Eldar, the Ainur, and most of all- from Melkor himself. Ripped apart by his own creation. He was but nothing now- _Nothing, but only so without the help of the Void._

The Forsaken Maia, doomed to staying broken apart, his soul tearing itself up in anguish for eternity, had never expected the abyssal voice in his head.

' _ **M**_ _ **æȝæ**_ _ **y**_ _ **á**_ _ **rr**_ _ **ō**_ _ **n.**_ _'_

The name was from a past so long forgotten, as if it had never been. The maia stirred from his eternal suffering to listen.

The Void had chosen its candidate.

' _ **M**_ _ **æȝæ**_ _ **y**_ _ **á**_ _ **rr**_ _ **ō**_ _ **n. Look thee at what thou hast become'.**_

 _No answer._

' _ **Surprised thou still art, I perceive. Yet 'tis not hidden from me that thou hadst always known. What hast thou become? Is this… resign I see? Mayhap I was wrong in mine eternal judgment.**_ _'_

 _No answer._

' _ **Hope is still left for thee, M**_ _ **æȝæ**_ _ **y**_ _ **á**_ _ **rr**_ _ **ō**_ _ **n. If only thou wilt look beyond the darkness thou see'st as do all."**_

 _No answer._

' _ **Arda will die, M**_ _ **æȝæ**_ _ **y**_ _ **á**_ _ **rr**_ _ **ō**_ _ **n.'**_

" **MAIRON IS DEAD. DEAD AND ANNIHILATED FROM E** **Ä- AND SO IS THIS AINU WHOSE NAME THOU DIDST UTTER."** The mental voice was not raised in anger, the words were not psychically shouted. They were thought perfectly coldly and with an edge of absolute ice. There was a finality about the tone, which made the words sound as if coming from one dead.

' _ **Fool of a maia, thou wert as thou art. Thou canst not see beyond the present. I tell thee now, wayward son, Arda shouldst die without me.'**_

" _Without thee? Hah- thou art the force by which Eä shall see its end. Arda can do perfectly well without 'thee'!"_ a wholly mirthless, psychic laugh was released.

The mysterious entity Sauron thought to be 'The Void' replied ominously.

" _ **Thou knowest better than any other that light finds not existence without darkness. The same is true for thy Eä. The Arda thou knowest and hast marred…"**_

" _Marred, thou wouldst call it. Marred. Thou knowest not true beauty- none of the Valar doth either!"_

" _ **Beauty- 'tis found in multifarious forms, foolish maia. Thou knowest nothing of the grand scheme of Eä, and thou wouldst do well to listen. A new Dark Lord has risen. Much more dangerous- much more deadly.**_ _"_

Deep down, Sauron had known this as well. A Dark Lord's fall would give rise to another. However, so soon- he did not expect that at all.

' _Tell me more.'_

' _ **Oh, thou art far too trusting. Hast thou been broken, perchance, so irrevocably that thou wouldst forget to question where the voice in thy head cometh from?"**_

' _I know thee. Thou hast been feared by me for time immemorial. Thou art the void."_

" _ **Foolish Maia- I am so much more than that."**_

' _Tell me, then!'_

" _ **Tsk, tsk, patience, foolish maia. Hearken to me. Thou wilt not know mine identity, for I will it not so. Thou wilt, however, know of the threat that stands betwixt Arda and its fate. A servant the Dark Lord hath created, and my power he claimeth for himself. A personification of doom-his power grows as his opponents do. Every fight, he grows in strength, the f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **ar of his defeated opponents manifest as darkness in his spirit."**_

" _A new enemy, then- what should I care? 'Tis to mine hope that he finds victory, and brings doom to the Valar-traitors!"_

" _ **Thou shouldst be concerned, for a threat he poses to Arda herself. The Dark Lord wishes her- reordered. Remade, to fall under the rule of his iron fist."**_

" _Eru praise him if it doth!"_

" _ **Tsk, tsk, little maia. Thou canst not conceal from me thy secret. Buried it thou hast, in the depths of thy f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a. Thou hast expelled it from thy mind, and thou thinkest it never to have existed. But thou knowest, as I do, thy love for Arda is paramount. Thou hast always loved her. Deny it not."**_

Sauron could not deny it. Not from one who knew. He had lived, fought, suffered, sacrificed- and to the best of his knowledge, _died-_ for Arda. _ **  
**_

" _ **Dead, thou thinkest thyself. Nay, 'twill not be so if my help thou dost accept."**_

" _I need not thy help! Even if I were to take thy offer, what could I- Sauron Gorthaur, the vanquished, the defeated, the thoroughly and utterly bloody finished, do against what thou sayest is a Darkness in which all life dies? Nay, here I shall remain, till the end of time, till the final destruction of my pitiful self."_

" _ **Arda will die, Mairon…"**_

Curse the Void! Curse whichever entity was ensnaring his mind! Would that he had but a little more power, so that he could thoroughly smite this infuriating _yrchion_ and show him how utterly he was just done…

 _Arda…_

" _ **Fine! I yield! What hast thou to offer?!"**_

A sad day, when he should lose his control like this. That he should allow a being- no, an _unbeing-_ to fill him with false hope when he knew all was futile… all was doomed… Arda was doomed…

The Void, however, did not interpret this as weakness.

" _ **Goood, goooood- finally, I have brought forth thy anger! Thou must unleash it, for thou wilt be the stronger for it!"**_

Sauron knew a trick when he saw one. This was a test, a test of his control. He composed himself, let the emptiness and sheer helplessness wash over him again, and said-

" _Nay. Rage wilt get me no-where. 'Tis not a time for wrath and ruin- it never was. The same folly I shall not repeat again."_

" _ **Well spotted, maia- finally, thou seest farther than thine own self. Thou art perfect. Now- thou hast lost thy innate Maiarin power, which thou canst not by me regain. Liefer would I have thee restored- but that is what thou must do for thyself. Thy powers of sorcery were cast away by the Doomsman, and those thou wilt never regain.**_ _"_

" _Then what canst thou furnish me with?"_

" _ **I can give thee darkness. Thy f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a I have seen, and thy core burns not. Thy spirit is torn, fragmented, cut in half irregularly. Thou art spread thin- as butter over too much bread, as some of the children would say. Little maia, hast thou not wondered why thou hast not been torn apart by my power?"**_

Another harsh, bitter laugh was elicited.

' _Oh, and thou supposest I am to believe that? I was, and am, under the impression that thou hast constantly been ripping me apart- for Every. Single. Moment.'_

" _ **Thy nature blinds thee again. Thou art cut so thin it seemeth to thee that thou art by me being torn apart. Thy f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a I have left untouched- I need not to tear it asunder, as that thou art willingly, and unknowingly, doing so for me. Tell me now, little maia, dost thou feel pain?"**_

' _Pain? PAIN? Thou knowest nothing of pain…"_

" _ **Tarry not, Maia! The truth I would have thee utter, and now!"**_

' _No choice thou leavest me- thou wilt know that pain I feel not. Pain I had stopped feeling a long time ago- but thou wilt not know from me why."_

" _ **Oh, but I already know, Maia- nonetheless, 'tis well that thou art not hindered by pain. If pain thou hadst felt, thou wouldst not have been able to hear, let alone respond to me, drowned as thou wouldst be in thy cries. No being in my confines hath experienced pain greater than what thou hast and thou art- not even thy Master, nor his ally who was forced to devour her own self."**_

' _Is this… sympathy I see? A Vala, speaking to me in pretense of the void?! Nay, I like it not!"_

" _ **No sympathy wilt thou see from me, Mairon. Yet, thou wilt see aid. I can but lend thee a small part of my power- for thy fractured psyche can but hold a few fragments. I would not wish thee- assimilated into my darkness. Thou art limited in that thou art a Maia- and I, I am limited in that another seeks to control me."**_

" _What will thy darkness do to me?"_

" **To** _ **thee? Thou wilt see.**_ **For** _ **thee? Everything thou canst hope for. Thou wilt gain strength, and stability. My darkness is not nothingness- the holes in thy f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a it will fill. A web of the night shall surround thee and protect thee at all times. Would that thou shouldst be able to wield my darkness as a weapon- yet another will come to take that power from me."**_

' _Canst thou not stop this 'other'? This servant? Why must thou sacrifice thy power…"_

" _ **Thou seest not the grand scheme of things, Mairon. I will do what is necessary. Mayhap, this Dark Lord is not mine enemy. Mayhap he shalt fulfil my purpose. 'Tis all a game, Mairon- and the board is set. It is by my discretion that thou wilt be a piece."**_

" _Then thou must bestow upon me means to regain my power."_

" _ **Order me not, foolish maia! Yet that to thee I must concede. To bestow upon thee such means would require an act of trust on thy part. Thou must let fall any barriers thou hast betwixt me and thy f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a. A painful act, normally, yet thou hast divulged that it is naught to thee."**_

" _And how am I to show such trust unto thee? What wouldst thou have me do?"_

" _ **Thou must do what thou hast not done for three ages. Thou must open thyself to thy atar."**_

" _It is the impossible thou wishest of me!"_

" _ **It is the only way, Mairon. Besides- it is a chance for thee to learn who I truly am."**_

Sauron paused to collect what scattered thoughts he could. This was the only way for him to be restored to something that was not a meaningless scrap of life. Yet, it would be hard. For years, he had shunned his Atar.

 _The Atar who did nothing to stop his fall to darkness._

 _The Atar who personally drowned the entirety of N_ _ú_ _m_ _é_ _nor only so that he could rob him of his body and part of his power._

 _The Atar who had that creature slip, taking his precious ring with it, right at the moment of his victory._

 _The Atar who had never interfered thus with Melkor, a far greater threat._

 _The Atar who doomed him to constant, unendurable pain._

 _The Atar who gave him the form of a weak maia when he should have been so much more._

 _The Atar who betrayed him._

However, even though he did not wish to admit it, Sauron did not wish to remain eternally relegated to the sidelines. He wished a role again- _something to do._ And above all, he could not deny that he loved Arda and could not bear to risk it destroyed.

It was with this thought that he slowly began striking down the barriers that defended his fëa. The core was gone, completely void of its once brilliant golden light. The rest of his fëa, which kept ripping itself apart constantly, ceased and calmed at the touch of the entity he had once thought to be the Void.

The tendrils of the entity's thought threaded the black, torn mass of his once amber fëa, and latched viciously onto his core.

 _He felt- cold._

For one unendurable moment, he felt that the void had betrayed him. It had merely been seeking a chance to finish him.

The next, he had a vision. A mighty throne, but intangible. Boundless halls stretched forth on his sides. The Figure on the Throne was one of pure light. He stretched forth His arms, welcoming His son into His embrace. It was incredibly tempting- then his darkness rushed back to him.

Years of suffering, of pain, of failure, came back to his mind. _No, he had not suffered for his! He did not need the Atar who betrayed him! He would stand alone, as ever he had done!_

" _ **I DO NOT NEED YOU! I NEVER NEEDED YOU!"**_ he shouted forth to the figure of light, which crossed its arms, and held the light back. The throne was fading away from him, so were the halls, so was everything…

Until in the Void he rose again, reborn.

 **Author's Note and Apologies:**

 **Mae govannen, mellyn-n** **í** **n. I am sorry this interlude will have to do for now.**

 **I am afraid I will be taking quite a large amount of time to post Part-II 'Rise of the Fell Kingdom', seeing as I am confined to this hospital bed and am expected to remain so for quite some time.**

 **Unfortunately, I did manage to hurt myself very badly and as such, am stuck here in Glasgow for the time being. I do not think I am nearly fit enough to wage war with the next chapter yet.**

 **Now, I wished to put out another little Sauron chapter.**

 **I have believed for a long time that the Void is not a place but an entity. I made it sentient for the purposes of this story only.**

 **My extremely long-winded theory cut short is that since everything originates from Eru, darkness must as well. Therefore, there must be a 'Light' aspect of Eru, and a 'Dark' aspect as well.**

 **I imagined the light is perceived as the majestic Il** **ú** **vatar upon the throne, and the Darkness is hidden from Ainurin sight.**

 **Just as the Light Side of Eru helps, nurtures and counsels the Valar, the Dark Side helps Melkor as well.**

 **Therefore, in this story, even Melkor didn't completely close off his connection with Eru, The only one to shun both aspects of Eru completely is our dear favourite Maia, for reasons to be revealed.**

 **The Void, to me, is a place created by Eru's dark side. It controls and thrives in the Void. The entity conversing with Sauron is actually Eru's darkness given form, and He is worried about the safety of His Void as a place.**

 **Everything that happens, Good or Evil, is part of Eru's greater design which we mortals, apparently, cannot comprehend. I decided to introduce this little element in this story as well.**

 _ **Nuruhuinony**_ _ **á**_ _ **r**_ _ **ë-**_ **The tale of the Death-Shadow.** _ **Nuruhuinë**_ **is the name Sauron has taken for himself after being 'revived', as such.**

 _ **Yrchion-**_ **Son of Orcs (because it can't be just one orc apparently)**

 **Until next time, then.**


	14. His Deadliest Servants

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: His Deadliest Servants**

The desolate wasteland of abandoned South Gondor was experiencing an extremely windy day. The weather of the desert was as temperamental as a Dwarf when presented several different kinds of good, strong ale, but it was rare to have such howling winds at this time of the year.

It was but the first month of the New Year, that was certain, and winter still reigned over these lands. However, such gales and squalls were rarely seen in the winter of this desert. Winter, oddly, tended to be a time of calm in terms of winds, when the sands were cold to the touch of even booted feet.

It was during the hot summer months that the winds and storms came.

However, this day the winds had a most curious quality to them- an odd, shrill sound kept emanating from seemingly nowhere. High shrieks and low whispers could be heard intermittently. It was not quite a storm, but still quite a gale, and none of the few travellers in this region were anywhere to be seen outside their camps.

Therefore, most conveniently, there were none to witness the arrival of the Shadow.

It appeared as if the blackness of the night gathered into a single, tangible shape, swirled around for a while, and then gained a certain _solidity._ The silhouette of a towering figure could be made out, but not even from a close distance could one gauge the details of appearance.

The darkness stopped swirling about and calmed, but still converged around the figure.

FLUMP.

A heavy footfall, almost experimental, displaced the sand.

The owner of the armoured boot that made it retracted the foot, and after a few moments of contemplation, began a heavy, solitary walk through the sands.

The Dark Lord's greatest servant was not quite at his best. As he resolutely parted the sands, he carefully assessed the damage to his self and mind.

A great chunk of his Dark Armour was missing at the chest, as if it had been smashed through. The body inside one could not see. Mormanar had, for the moment, managed to forge a rudimentary cover of shadow to plug the gap.

There were other rifts and rents too, places where there were _holes_ in the sheer darkness. The greatest wound, of course, he had suffered to his shadowed core. The darkness of his being had only just survived being obliterated by Oromë's spear of light.

There were times when one grew restless in the impersonal world, feeling _caved in_ and _uncomfortable._ This was not the case with Lord Mormanar. In his case, it was a persistent _itch_ and _prick_ in his fëa. Then again, since he was neither Ainu nor Eruhîn, his spirit could not be called a fëa. It was a thing of shadow entirely.

Nonetheless, all was not _perfect_ for Mormanar. It had been difficult to devour the Noldóran's soul. There it was, _darned light at the edges of his consciousness that just refused to be snuffed out._

He correctly guessed it would take a long time before that would stop bothering him. The Souls of the Finwionnath were not easily forfeit. However, with his fëa came great power. Noldorin fëar, though painful to touch, yielded great reward. He did not, however, wish to use this power to fix his armour- less powerful and less luminous souls could be used for that. This power he wished to conserve.

Though he was stronger than ever before, he was currently weakened, somewhat. It took time to dominate the sheer fire of the Noldóran's soul, and then he would wield _true_ power. He had suffered injury at the hands of the Valar, which would take time to heal, since he wished to conserve each and every last bit of his power.

Finally, he was come to the Mortal lands. The Atani were truly fascinating in a way, he mused, with his usual scientific interest. It appeared that their bits of the Flame Imperishable were hidden deep inside their fëar. Therefore, they were not able to wield 'magic', as they called it, and could not extend their minds forth in Ósanwë, and most importantly, could not draw forth Songs of Power.

However, this little flicker of the Flame Imperishable came out when most needed. Often, they would show great feats of strength and endurance impossible for the Eldar. They would rise to heights impossible in normal conditions. They would be spurred on by a burst of unmatchable bravery when they needed it most.

This little spark needed something to force it out of the depths of a fëa- desperation and fear, perhaps. A desire for vengeance, or an urge of fulfilment. However, the most powerful 'trigger' of all was love.

Mormanar did not at all understand love, yet he did not hate and revile the concept as his master did. Love could be very useful for his purposes, yes… It also served as a reminder for him to be 'thankful' of his utterly emotionless state.

However, despite the presence of the Flame Imperishable in the mortals, Mormanar could not draw upon it to feed his strength. Therefore, despite mortals being lacking, he was at a disadvantage since he was weakened against them.

The Stronger the Foe, the Greater the Darkness- as was demonstrated in Valinor- and the Weaker the Foe, the more diminished he became.

Besides, due to the absence of magic in most parts of Middle-earth, Mormanar had only the fëar he took to fuel his strength. These Mortal fëar were, on the whole, difficult to devour, as the call of passing on them was strong… No matter.

It was this temporary weakening that had forced him to leave the Shadow World and begin walking. He felt _uncomfortable,_ and needed some good, hard walking in a physical state to ease the dull throb that Finarfin's fiery fëa caused.

His great black cloak billowed behind him, as a secondary dark robe obscured his features and his armour. His dark helm, with its twisted spires, lay cold and towering atop him.

" _ **It is a testament to my power that you still exist, apprentice."**_

"Indeed, master. It would certainly have been a waste for You had I been finished." said Mormanar, just as coldly, without any concern for himself. He was a tool, and existed to fulfil his master's will- and he knew that and accepted it, emotionless as he was.

" _ **The Shadow world serves me now- hence I was able to get you out. However, I need something else, if I am to challenge the Valar. 'Dark Lord' as I am, I am not yet master of all Darknesses."**_

"I believe Your exception is the Void, my master. That is the purpose for which You created me, is it not?"

" _ **Indeed. The Void will be yours soon, Mormanar, and**_ **you** _ **will be**_ **it** _ **. However, there is yet another Darkness, perhaps the most important of all- the Darkness of Arda herself."**_

"If I am correct in my interpretation, that would be Melkor's darkness, would it not, Master?"

" _ **Very clever, Mormanar- I see your creation was not a mistake. Melkor, once greatest of the Valar, was wise- and yet a fool. Wise fool."**_

"A proverb the Maia I faced would no doubt use."

" _ **Arrogant I am not, and I must admit that his wisdom runs deep. Melkor poured his very essence into Arda. His reasoning? Simple- if he could not have Arda for his own, he would twist it in such a way that no one could. Selfish idiot that he was, he greatly weakened himself in the process."**_

"In all events, this is not a darkness that can bear any fruit, master. I see no…"

" _ **And that is where you are lacking. Foresight- the sole gift I could not impart to you. However, such foresight I have been blessed with by Atar- and I intend to use it. While Melkor's squandering of his power resulted in his weakening, it did give him tremendous power over the fate of the land he ruled, without him realising it."**_

"I see."

" _ **Have you not wondered how every single major event he was involved in turned out a victory? How every battle after the Dagor Aglareb was a success? How plagues and epidemics arose, how shadow and corruption enshrouded the land? It is evident that Melkor held some measure of power over Arda herself- but he could not wield it."**_

"And You can, master?"

" _ **That is where the difficulty lies, apprentice. After the Silmaril's theft, Melkor searched desperately for a way to pull his shadow out of the bowels of the Earth, despising his weakness and wishing himself stronger. It was all to no avail. Mighty in the lore of f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **ar as I am, even I cannot feel the echoes of this darkness- but it is there."**_

Any other than Mormanar would have been befuddled. If Melkor himself had been unable to wield _his own_ power, how could the new Dark Lord even hope to do so? And his objectives were so radical, that a power over the lands would not suffice. The Valar were his opponents.

Mormanar, however, made the assumption that his master had already devised a solution to it. Otherwise, he would not speak of it at all- _a waste of time._

"Surely, master, You have found a way to wield this power?" he asked, in place of ' _How can you hope to wield Melkor's power when he himself could not?"_

" _ **Wield it? No. Have control over it? Indeed I shall."**_

"I am afraid even I have proved incapable of comprehending Your design, master."

" _ **That is as it should be- I create the design and you enact it. However, an understanding may prove decisive in the matter of efficiency- to explain myself, I will not pull the shards of Melkor's f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a and subsume them within my own. I cannot pull his shadows from the world and use them for direct damage and destruction- that is impossible save for Melkor himself, if he but calms his mind for an instant and contemplates. However, I intend to see to it that Melkor will no longer have a mind."**_

The Dark Lord released an evil cackle of satisfaction. It was laughter from a mouth that never laughed- so chilling a sound that it would send shivers down the spine of any being save Mormanar, who lacked the feeling necessary for the action.

"And what would You have of me, my lord?" came the abyssal voice with that sinister metallic resonance.

" _ **Your task, Mormanar, shall be very directly connected to mine. My next little destination is the Void, where I will take care of our**_ **Dear Lord** _ **Melkor.**_ _ **Though I cannot wield his darkness without ripping Arda apart entirely, I can dominate it. However, as you have seen, the owner of a f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a needs to be utterly broken before the f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a can be dominated. I suspect his resistance will be tremendous- perhaps the greatest of any being, owing to his hatred- but I WILL do it."**_

Mormanar listened carefully, and all of a sudden, felt an odd jab in his inner being.

"Master, I… felt something. A stab of _defiance._ I am clearly not its source- I believe You have surmised what is."

" _ **Hmm- this is unexpected. I must hasten- the void, which you are so closely connected to- appears to be planning something. I had not believed it capable of this, but- in the end, it was only logical. Fools of the Valar, they should have known- nonetheless, I must fulfil my task before the Void selects Melkor as its champion and blesses him with a wealth of Dark Power he can use to rival me."**_

"That would be only logical, master- but it appears You have forgotten to assign me my task. What is Your bidding that I must fulfil?"

" _ **An error pardonable in my haste- you see, Mormanar- I am not perfect. I can never hope to be- that is why I created you. You have what I do not. You can do what I cannot. That is why you must not fail."**_

Mormanar took his master's _extremely_ rare praise with the same cold, impassive manner, not even acknowledging it save for with a short bow of deference.

" _ **You see- another servant of mine wanders these parts- the one you last encountered eleven years ago."**_

Mormanar's reaction was quite possibly the closest he could get to a show of emotion, namely contempt.

"With all due respect, master, I fail to see what possible use could come out of _him._ Perhaps it is the foresight I lack, but I see in him but a hindrance to Your plans. "

The Dark Lord knew for a fact that Mormanar did not underestimate his other servant- it was simply that his perception of the latter came as close to revulsion as possible for one emotionless. The Dark Lord himself had often regretted his choice to recruit that servant, despite making it after long thought and with absolute caution. His foresight, however, did foreshadow a path of destruction that he would wreak. Therefore, he explained to Mormanar the very reasons he kept repeating to himself when in doubt of the impetuous one.

" _ **He can be a powerful ally, Mormanar. His power is great and destructive- even I cannot correctly estimate the potential havoc he can wreak. He can wipe out insignificant enemies in seconds if he puts his wayward mind to it. However, his true strength is that he does not merely bring chaos- he IS Chaos itself. Pure Chaos incarnate. He can scourge the mind of any enemy with his chaotic might, rendering your own task easier."**_

"I had previously housed the belief that chaos itself was Melkor. Is that not so, master?"

" _ **Chaos itself can accomplish naught, Mormanar- it needs some semblance of order so that it can crush order itself. Each Ayan**_ _ **ū**_ _ **z was given his or her own characteristics- but they all had a myriad of traits and personalities to choose from. M**_ _ **ānawenūz chose to discard his desire for power and might in favour of kindness, compassion and love for his fellow**_ _ **Ayan**_ _ **ūmu**_ _ **z.**_

 _ **Belek**_ _ **ō**_ _ **r**_ _ **ō**_ _ **z, on the other hand, chose to nurture his greed, rage and anger, losing the good in him, becoming D**_ _ **ušamānūdhāz, the Dark Destroyer. However, he retained a semblance of order, in that he was devoted to one task and one task alone.**_

 _ **Now, imagine a Maia- very mighty, very ambitious- and with little foresight or even wit to spare- imagine a Maia of**_ _ **M**_ _ **ānawenūz who wished more than ever his lord gave him. Imagine how tempting the offers of**_ _ **D**_ _ **ušamānūdhāz would be to such a Maia. However, the Maia is akin to**_ _ **M**_ _ **ānawenūz's folk, and cannot see what will become of the schemes of**_ _ **D**_ _ **ušamānūdhāz. He would be torn apart, would he not- between brothers so similar yet so different."**_

"So that would be his origin, then, master? That would be where You picked your second servant from. How oddly convenient."

" _ **As efficient with your thought as with your blade, Mormanar- indeed it is convenient, but you need not worry. Some things that appear convenient to you have been arranged by me to become so.**_

 _ **This particular maia- he was different from the others. A fighter who feared pain. Possessor of might he never properly used.**_ _ **D**_ _ **ušamānūdhāz never directly targeted him as he targeted another- indeed, he was not even taken notice of. Therefore, neither of the brothers had greater influence on him.**_

 _ **So torn was he between the themes of the brothers- the discord of Melkor and the harmony of Manwë- that his part in the ainulindalë was one of mixed themes. However, if a theme is not pure, it is discordant- this pushed him ever so slightly into the grasp of Melkor's darkness, and the maiar abandoned him. Manwë would no doubt have shown mercy- but fear overcame the Maia then, and he retreated.**_

 _ **His song twisted Manwë's power into something destructive- the first bolts of life-quenching lightning were thus born of his light. They struck the earth and burrowed deep- and even deeper into the hearts of the Eruhíni, instantly ending their lives.**_

 _ **Although other Valar and Maiar would come to use channelled magic similar to this maia's creation, the creator would be forever forgotten- until now.**_

 _ **This act rendered him unable to any longer sing true Ainurin songs of power- but I have found him. I have promised him the freedom he wished. I promised him a world of chaos- and so he takes the form of a spectral knight to drown the world in a tide of death."**_

Although he found this most illuminating, Mormanar responded as impassively as ever, as if it was but nothing to him. He certainly knew 'The World of chaos' the Dark Lord had promised was a clever manipulation. And thus, he would have to watch him.

"And I am to assume, master, that You wish me to work with him? To use him as a weapon, and to watch him should he choose to attempt anything… unnatural?"

" _ **Not yet, Mormanar, not yet. The Loyalty of one so chaotic is hard-won, and even harder kept. He believes himself above all else, save me… that must be rectified."**_

And without another word, He was gone. Mormanar's icy expression changed for less than a tenth of a second, as the realization that he had a fight on his hands came to him.

He did not have the best geographical knowledge of South Gondor (another problem that must be rectified), and he had only been paying a passing attention to his surroundings. He concentrated, and traced the entire path of his walk through his mind.

His estimate told him that he had taken a somewhat rough path and was come to the crossings of Poros. He had landed the Stolen Telerin swan-boat between Tolfalas and the Ethir Anduin, coming with great stealth unto Middle-earth. He could not use the shadow world to leave Valinor- as the Valar's barriers were too strong, and had been forced to take a physical route.

There was a great risk of being sighted here, so he grudgingly dissolved his form, despite the fact that his fëa was pained without a body to inhabit due to the Noldóran's fire.

His shadow flew to the dark mountains of the southern Ephel Dúath, the grim, black rocks bordering desolate Mordor.

In these ten years, he knew that the King had most definitely sent men to erect and inhabit watch-towers, but there was still a lesser risk of being sighted among the dark rock than in open plain, moor or fen.

It was then that he remembered that this other servant did not at all tend to be discrete about using his power. Indeed, the fact that he was being pursued was glaringly obvious to Mormanar, as indicated by the periodically-flickering, solitary spark in the sky that kept an almost constant distance from him.

His mind was ice, and he knew that it was entirely possible that his master had had exactly the same conversation with this storm-bringer as with Mormanar himself. This was a test, he realised.

Mormanar was currently weakened, wounded by the Valar, and burnt by Arafinwë's fëa- he needed time to recover. The Dark Lord did not plan on giving him any.

He was also unused to Middle-earth, and the void in his being where power filled it in Valinor.

A calculated analysis told him that while the mountain may look inviting for attempts at stealth, he was better off on level ground. While a plain would better suit one such as his opponent, judging by the nature of his power, Mormanar's best hope lay in grinding out his opponent's strength with iron defense. This was better accomplished on a level, plain ground.

He found a suitable spot, right by the side of the Black Rock, and the darkness he carried within exited and converged around him, once again melding itself into his black armour.

The hilt of the Ainunarcar he held at his side, in stance. The Black Blade flickered twice, materialising for a few seconds and then vanishing, when finally Mormanar felt a little frisson of power crackling through him, he only indicator of another presence.

The swooshing sound was his only warning.

* * *

 **A/N: It would seem I'm back. I am not quite yet well enough to wage war on the Gondor chapter quite yet, so here we are with the Dark Side again.**

 **As for Sauron, he has been restored, somewhat, of course not anywhere near his original strength, not even near his Third Age level- but he's no longer a pincushion. Also, the void has given him the means to restore his strength, and I tell you, he's formulating some extremely sinister plans for that at the moment…**

 **So finally, Mormanar and the Storm Knight meet. Irresistible Force against Immovable Object.**

 **Reviews are appreciated, they really do help me in this mess that I got myself into…**


	15. A New Enemy

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **PART TWO: THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 2: A New Enemy**

 _ **Trewsday, 3 Afteryule, 1431 Shire-reckoning**_

 _ **OR 11 Fourth Age**_

Imrahil was anything but the picture of princely majesty he usually was. Bloodied and broken armour, hands stained with red ichor both his own and of others, aching and bruised joints, and a face scarred with failure, he seemed to be coming from a gruesome torture.

 _Not that he would use any different words to describe the battle._

Landroval, himself injured, flew down cautiously to the seventh and last level of the glorious palace of Minas Tirith. The eagle had decided this to be his last service upon Middle-earth, and his Lord Manwë had communicated by thought that he did not begrudge it to him.

Silently, the eagle flew down with the defeated prince on his back, when a voice said: "The sixth, please, my friend. I cannot bear to stand before the White Tree after this failure of mine."

Landroval chose not to argue, and after circling once, dropped his altitude. Vicious battle and long, weary flight had done nothing to his grace, and he landed softly and perfectly on the sixth level's battlements.

"I owe you my life, Lord Landroval. I will request another kindness of you, my saviour- please conduct yourself to the Houses of Healing, where rest, food and water are to be found, for 'twill gladden my heart. After, I am sure, the King Elessar would wish to have audience with you, hence kindly delay the time of your flight until then."

"As you wish, Lord Imrahil, though 'tis with a heavy heart that I delay my departure to my rightful home."

And it was then that Imrahil realised Landroval's wish to effect a return to Valinor.

"I will miss you, Lord of Winds, saviour of souls. What can I say- except… may the winds of your omnipotent lord ever carry you to further heights, _estel ennor_ _o_ _._ "

Landroval nuzzled his beak against Imrahil's face, and flew down to the Houses of Healing.

The prince gave a sigh and steadily began his walk up the street, looking for an entrance into the Palace of the King.

He had found a way inside, and was absently walking through a sprawling, white corridor, when-

"You look terrible, my friend."

"Éomer! What a delight it is to see you, friend!" said Imrahil with a joy he had not exhibited in all of fifteen days, and Éomer laughed as he clasped Imrahil in a hug. However, seeing the prince stiffen, he let go. An audible gasp of pain exited Imrahil's lips, and he massaged his ribs.

"What has happened to you, Imrahil? Are you alright? Why are you not in the Houses of Healing? Ilúvatar, you look terrible! What in the name of Meduseld did-"

Imrahil hushed him with a sigh, and said: "A long and most painful story, my friend. I believe I should start with the obvious- I was defeated. Very soundly. My force, oh my elite force- was- _annihilated."_

Dumbstruck would be about an understatement for the expression on Éomer's face. Imrahil was one of the best strategists he knew. He would never risk his men and made sure to minimize casualties. Amroth's Swan-Knights far outclassed even his noble Rohirrim. Besides, the artillery from the dwarves was built to break apart any choke-point or siege-hold.

Imrahil sighed heavily, pressed his palm to his wounded face and said: "The Blame indeed lies with me, my brother in arms- but only in part. I had not anticipated for the coming of that harbinger of doom."

"What is this you say? Harbinger of doom? The Ages of Magic are at an end, my friend. There exists no evil so great in Middle-earth…"

"Oh, but it does, King. I saw it with my own eyes. My bodyguard, the Silver Stars- they fought it and died to its vicious strikes. Magic great and destructive it wielded, and rent apart my forces as a knife does butter. A spectre of death-"

"Come, now, surely this…"

"You must believe me, Éomer! It destroyed my army! I myself barely escaped with my life, thanks to Lord Manwë's grace. Others there were too, Black Núménoreans if I judged correctly. They still live, Éomer, defying death, delaying old age."

Éomer's face contorted into a deep frown.

"I do believe I understand it now."

"Understand what, brother?"

"I believe King Aragorn expected this. He has called a great war council, and from what I hear, has been sending out messengers ever since your departure. Many great lords have come, and yet more are awaited. It is not a council for a time of war, as such a state is not upon us, but the way it is being convened- suffice to say I have my suspicions."

It was Imrahil's turn to frown. On doing so, he found his face feel as if it was burning. He quickly raised a hand to soothe the sudden pain, and Éomer's expression immediately softened.

"But come now, brother, surely you need rest. I would have you do me the pleasure of accompanying you to the houses of healing, and…"

Imrahil immediately shook his head.

"I need to see him. I need to see Aragorn- and immediately. I will go nowhere else until this I have fulfilled."

"Fine then, I shall convey you to him. But tell me first of this… spectre."

Imrahil shuddered, and his fear was evident- but so was his rage and anger.

"I had thought my main opponent would be the Black Núménorean who was at the forefront of his army. Certainly he was a fearsome strategist, and wielded some sorcery himself… but it was not to be so. The first thing I heard was a clap of mighty thunder. Then, it happened. It was as a storm upon our lines."

"A storm? A veritable storm?"

"At first I had thought not so. Two groups of Dark Knights there were- and they scourged our forces throughout the battle to come. Even the Swan-Knights, it became apparent, could not hold them off. The unholy will they exerted on their beasts was strange. Even they, it seemed, wielded the ghastly sorcery of Sauron, as any projectile we flung at them always seemed to miss, and no arrows hit their steeds at all."

"Dark of Armour, steeds black as the night, and wielding poisonous scythes?" quipped a voice they could not trace. A figure _who had simply not been behind Imrahil a moment ago showed itself,_ a short knife to Imrahil's back. He turned around befuddled.

"If you dare, assassin…" began Éomer, but even as he, with great speed, pulled his sword from its scabbard, the figure struck with _unholy_ speed and precision with… _something… some blur…_ and Éomer's sword was lying on the ground.

"Not trained properly in reflexes, I see…" came the sweet, melodic voice again, and before either ruler could do anything, the figure raised a gloved hand to its hood and threw it off. The two beheld a face of sheer perfection, alabaster skin, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, sharp features…

The face emitted was oddly _incandescent._ In fact, not only the face, but the whole figure… _glowed._ What was most interesting was the newcomer's lowing golden hair, coming down below his shoulders. A little silver circlet, wreathed in leaves, rested on his brow. A white necklace decorated his neck.

'Surely an Elf, and an important one' the both of them thought.

The figure reminded them very much of Legolas, but their elven friend did not possess quite the gold locks that this one did.

The elf looked at their faces, seeing no recognition, and gave a sad smile.

"The hobbit has not made nearly enough of a mention of me, I see… Even my son could not be trusted to tell his friends of his poor old father lingering in the woods…"

" **King Thranduil!"** the two Lords of Men chorused immediately, and stooped down in respect. Thranduil gently placed his hands on their temples, and said: "May you live blessed forever, my friends." They got up, and saw that sad smile on his face again.

"You know of these knights?" said Imrahil.

"Alas, I had the indubitable displeasure of making their none-too friendly acquaintance several times during the War of the Ring, and on even more occasions before it."

"What are they?"

"They are the foulest- well, perhaps not- and most terrible servants of Sauron. They formed the most dangerous regiment the Dark Lord could field in battle, and the havoc they can wreak is tremendous. They are darkness itself, placed in armour and put on horseback. They are the _Morg_ _û_ _l Roquennath,_ the scions of swift doom. Their attack is the storm of the night."

"Morgûl Knights" said Imrahil thoughtfully. "Knights of Dark Sorcery. I am afraid I do not quite understand."

"As far as I have seen, they are either ancient Núménoreans, kept alive by foul sorcery and a refusal to die, or wraiths neither living nor dead. It is likely that some were once men, stabbed by the Morgûl-blades of the Nine, having turned completely to the shadow world."

"The watchers of Ithilien speak of a dark host of cavalry that rode out of the gates of Minas Ithil. It was as if a fell storm had emerged upon the ground, to follow the sorcerous storm that had, a few moments before, lit the skies. Ahead of them rode the Nazgûl, behind them came the Morgûl orc host, and above them circled the Witch-King of Angmar."

A new voice, coming from another stealthed figure, reached their ears. Even Thranduil had not been able to detect the newcomer, but the voice was recognised instantly.

" **Aragorn!"** said Éomer and Imrahil, to the King who happened to be one of their dearest friends. King Aragorn II Elessar, Envinyatar, strode regally out of a very cpnvenient spot behind a white door posing as a wall.

"It seems I have not lost all my skill, then" said Aragorn, with a small smile, and walked into the embrace of his friends, managing a short bow to Thranduil, who bowed in turn.

"As charming as this little place is, I believe the official discussion has already begun here, judging by the conversation. I believe I know of another place perhaps more apt for our little discussion." said the King, and with a sweep of his embroidered cloak, led the way to the seventh and final level.

It was in a secluded chamber they found themselves, at the absolute top of the palatial city. The courtyard of the White Tree, which was flowering fast, provided a scenic view below them.

Above all, it was an entirely open yet entirely private place. There was a dome held up by several white pillars, a perfectly round structure with no walls or curtains. The wind flew in intermittently. One would think this was a place easily spied upon, but it was designed such that the wind would carry no sound of any words spoken to the lower levels, and the every inch of solitary stair to the pinnacle of the city was guarded by the Elite Champions of Nimloth- the cream of the crop in military and Gondor's finest, with higher rank and status than even the famous Tower Guard.

It was a pleasant surprise to Thranduil when he found out who the last in the line of Guards was.

"Haldir of Lórien, let it be known I never expected you. Indeed, I must say I am generous in that I will not punish you in this flouting of my orders to stay in Lasgalen!"

"Pardon, my lord, but I do make it my mission to follow you around whenever possible. With the Lord Celeborn's passing, I must say you are too precious to our people to risk losing."

Thranduil would once have smiled at Haldir's subtle hint that he was being treated as a child, but he knew only too well the pain of losing someone. He sighed, therefore, and bade him welcome to the conversation.

"So, Imrahil, this spectre you speak of…" began Éomer.

"Doubt not my words- a spectre he was, and by Mandos I swear upon it. Our strikes were doing naught to him. My elite bodyguard, the Silver Stars, lost in a confrontation against him despite landing many hits. The power he wielded…"

"Lightning bolts summoned from the sky and off the tip of his vicious halberd?" asked Thranduil, prompting a gasp from Imrahil.

"My Lord, you know of this fiend?"

"Answer my question first. Was he or was he not, a spectral, ethereal-seeming figure inn shining blue armour, riding a horse of the same complexion, wreaking havoc upon your lines without suffering but a scratch?"

"Y-yes." said Imrahil, dumbfounded. What sort of telepathy was this? It was an exact, perfect description.

"Did you attempt to fight him?"

"Well, yes, that would be natural after seeing my army slaughtered. However, when I charged at him- one moment he was there and the other… he wasn't."

"Coward. Bloody Coward. This proves beyond doubt that it is the same monster who assailed me."

"Assailed you? King Thranduil, I demand to know why I wasn't informed of this earlier. I have kept no secrets from you whatsoever, and I do not think it necessary for you to keep such secrets from me." said Aragorn, somewhat heatedly.

"Elessar! Admirable King though you are, I expect you to know that I have good reason to keep such information from you. If only you had lived as long as I have, son, you would have learned the merits of secrets and the dangers of confidence." said Thranduil, lowering his voice at the end- untold grief was in the Elvenking's expression. Aragorn decided that it would be wise not to push it further.

"Pray tell me, then- what is this fiend?"

Imrahil, wounded as he was, looked too weak to relive the dark battle and describe the Storm Knight. Aragorn's expression softened, and he noticed for the first time how injured the Prince was, though he valiantly attempted to hide it with his manner. Before he could voice his concerns, however, Thranduil spoke.

"A spectral Knight on an equally ethereal steed. Lightning is his weapon, and he wields it with a lethal flair. He is beyond any of you. He is, I believe, capable of summoning a thousand storms and more. The storms obey his every command. A deadly, terrible halberd he wields, curved and designed to pierce armour- kill as quickly and with as much blood spilt as possible.

Some fell sorcery resides in the weapon itself, and thin, dark bolts of the same, black energy, a foul parody of Lord Manwë's lightning, leap forth from it to stun and kill any who dares engage him. The halberd itself he is capable of throwing as if a thunderbolt, and by some Melkian devilry it does indeed become one."

Imrahil nodded vigorously, as the Storm Knight had used the very same method of attack on Landroval, a strike he was sure would have been devastating had not the eagle dodged it.

"The Halberd I have seen. It seems to me that he has plucked the lightning of the sky and made it solid, and is using it as a weapon."

Thranduil gave a slow nod, and bent his head a little. Finally, voice little more than a whisper, he said "The Halberd he threw at me, intending to finish me from range. With my enchanted blades I was able to block it. Little did I know, however, that he would summon it back to his hand. I was not prepared the second time. It was… Rúmil who saved me. Rúmil who saved my life, at the expense of his own."

"That- that fiend is the bane of Rúmil?! What of the 'orc-hunting accident' that you told me claimed his life? The impalement upon a tree due to his having tripped? A lie, then? Naturally, since an elf so deft as him would never have fallenupon a _tree!"_ said Aragorn, incensed.

"Peace, my lord Aragorn. He lived a full life, and I am happy for him. He died for a noble cause- a hero's death. He was too attached to Middle-earth to sail- and I would have hated to see him fade. No, Elessar, my brother lies in peace in Mandos, and even though he… left… me, I shall not mourn him. _He would never have wanted that."_ said Haldir himself, to the King's surprise. On hearing of his brother's death ten years ago, the former marchwarden had been inconsolable. Aragorn wondered if he had known the truth all along.

"Fine, then. Is there anything else I must know of, Thranduil?"

"Unfortunately, there is another tragedy, which I see no reason to conceal from you anymore. This 'Storm Knight', as he is called, managed to eradicate three-fifths of the army I had with me at the moment. I have had to call in the rest of my troops stationed at other places to complete my army. Overall- one fifth of the male Eldar under my protection have been slain."

"Oh, Eru almighty- had you not told me they had sailed? Was it all for nothing, then? I become a ranger of the north, live my life in secrecy, undergo the hardship and toil of ten men, come back to the legacy I wanted to run away from, did not once lose my head in a hopeless war, initiate a battle sure to result in death, get crowned King- all for this? Is this not an age of peace? And you, telling me they had _sailed?_ Have I not undergone enough to merit your trust?"

"Aragorn. The Burden of a King weighs heavy on you. Look at you, losing temper over an issue such as this when you have faced far worse in more difficult times with a cool head. Do not think it is your job to correct all that is wrong, my friend- that is impossible, save for the Valar. Now, I suggest calming down, and addressing this matter with an analytical mind." said Éomer, calming him down. Aragorn took a deep breath and released a heavy sigh.

"How did you stop him? Imrahil's army, I deduce, has been annihilated. This 'Storm Knight' would clearly have not stopped at merely three fifths- about four hundred- of your own."

"I did the only thing I could- as I readied myself to fight him to the death, I sent a silent, hopeless prayer to the Valar- and it was miraculously answered. Shafts of white flame parted the earth, turning the Morgûl Knights to ash, while white light came from the skies to confuse the riders. I saw my path clear for me. This Storm-bringer began to grow less confident. His aura paled. I was upon him, and the coward chose to flee rather than fight me. A flash of lightning, and he was gone." said Thranduil, managing to keep a neutral face throughout.

"That is indeed similar to what happened to me. He-aaah-"

Aragorn swept forward to Imrahil. The prince was swooning, but waved him away.

"Imrahil, whatever it is you have to say, it can wait. It was wrong of me to have dragged you here. Let me conduct you to the Houses of Healing, where you shall be given what you desperately need…"

Imrhail shut his eyes and gave a pained shake of the head, holding his arm out.

"Stay, Aragorn. Whatever he has to say, I am sure it is important. I can feel it from his aura" said Thranduil, his face grave.

Aragorn looked doubtful, and stepped back. King though he was, the welfare of his friends came first- if he had to bodily carry Imrahil to the Healing Houses and treat him himself, he would do so unquestioningly.

And so, Imrahil began his dark tale. He spoke of the trident-wielding Guard at the gate who roared war-cries in ancient Adûnaic, Warriors in Black Armour who engaged the whole front line, never seeming to tire despite long fighting and many wounds.

He told them how his Dark-robed adversary had issued forth with the remnant of his forces, how they had cunningly dodged his artillery.

He spoke of the Morgûl Knights, and how they had ambushed his ambushing Swan-Knights, eliciting many a frown from Thranduil. He spoke of how these Knights wielded sorcerous power. He spoke of the tactics and casualties of the battle, and how his opponent had thrown all caution to the winds and charged the entirety of his army against them, a tactic that seemed to work very well.

Just as he counter-manoeuvred, he said, The Storm Knight had joined, destroying all semblance of tactical order, and throwing the battlefield into chaos. He took care to tell them his suspicions that the Storm Knight represented a tertiary side, as he killed both his men and his opponent's.

Finally, to the bewilderment of all save Thranduil, he spoke of Ringlach the Cold-drake of the north.

"Another one? Smaug was the- they were killed- yet how- why- what…" said Éomer, utterly confused.

"Sadly, my friend, it is true. Let me- aah…"

For Imrahil had just remembered how Herumor had ascended atop Ringlach and annihilated his forces with a lightning-blast. He did not know exactly what happened, but the terror of the moment awakened new pain within him. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it, unable.

Éomer took one look at Aragorn and stooped over to support Imrahil, gently pushing him up and grasping him by the shoulder.

"That's enough, now… Wasn't your fault in the least… Fell sorcery… You did admirably, my friend. You were brave beyond the call of duty. Now, however, your hurts must be healed before I can allow you to narrate the rest." said the King of Rohan, whispering meaningless reassurances when he needed them.

Aragorn shook his head, and got ready to continue the deliberation, when a blur rushed in. In the nick of time, Aragorn stepped away from the little door, prompting the blur to trip, jump and fall flying to the floor.

Haldir walked in, stooping down and helping the figure up. It was Hador, the young errand-runner.

"My goodness, Hador, I hope you have not hurt yourself? You are of no use to me broken." said Aragorn, with a little sternness and a lot of concern.

"P-pardon me, m-my lord, but the Lords Elladan and Elrohir are back, along with the Queen Arwen. The Lady requested your immediate presence, my lord and…" Hador began, stuttering, but he had no chance to finish as Aragorn had dashed away in a most unlordly manner immediately after he had pronounced 'immediate presence'.

The King ran with a far greater speed than the errand-runner, flying down three steps at a time. None of the guards stationed at any step could catch him, and in pursuit, all fell behind, save Haldir, whose elven agility kept him at a constant distance from the King- but when they reached level ground, even he fell behind.

Aragorn rushed, red ermine cloak billowing about behind him and crown askew, without escort, towards the front gates.

It was on the second level that he found them, Arwen ascending regally upstairs, Elladan and Elrohir on her flanks.

"A, Estel! Hanar!" the twins said at once, rushing forward to embrace him together, quite smothering him.

"Man gwá i Aranwedh Gondoren?" asked Elrohir, but before Aragorn could say anything, Arwen surreptitiously whispered:

"Edlenn-sí, tad."

The Twins looked first at her then at Aragorn, identical solemn expressions covering their faces, and swept away before Aragorn could say or do anything.

"Meleth-nîn" said Arwen, slowly stepping forward.

Aragorn did not allow her to step any farther forward, bounding to her in three 'steps' and giving her a long, tender kiss to the lips.

She drew him in, not breaking contact, until they finally parted lips, requiring air.

Aragorn opened his mouth, wishing to say about a million things that he had on his mind to say to her, but she gently brushed one finger against his lips, moving her other palm to rest on her stomach.

Perhaps it was Aragorn's maiarin ancestry, perhaps his skill as a ranger. Perhaps it was due to an intangible sixth sense he possessed. Shapely as her figure remained, he already knew what had happened before Arwen had a chance to mouth it.

None of the Atani could extend his mind forth in Ósanwë- yet there was an exception. Three, in fact- first Beren, then Tuor, then Aragorn. In each case, there was only one they could communicate with mentally.

Arwen allowed her beloved to take her into his arms, her mind whispering: "The line of Kings bears fruit once again."

"There can be only one name for him and you know it- Eldarion."

"That is truly lovely."

 **TRANSLATIONS:**

 **Trewsday- Tuesday**

 **Afteryule- Roughly January**

 **Morgul Roquennath- Morgul Knights**

 **A, Estel, Hanar: Ah, Estel, little brother**

 **Man gwa I Aranwedh Gondoren: What of the Kingship of Gondor?**

 **Edlenn-si, tad: Out of here, you two**

 **Meleth-nin: My love**

 **Eldarion- Child of the Elves**

 **A/N: EURGH. I actually described a kiss.**

" **Let this be the hour when the Iron Control of the Author fails! An hour of wolves and shattered reputations!"**

 **It was preparation for a little oneshot I am planning to release on a certainly very predictable day.**

 **Thank you, Arinariel, for the two most generous reviews. I am glad I could help in any way.**

 **As always, thanks to Comedy Monarchy for the very large number of reviews he has left.**

 **I have FINALLY learned that a writer is supposed to reply to reviews by PMs, and am therefore doing so. Sorry to anyone I have kept waiting this way- I promise to reply to any further reviews.**

 **Thanks to the Guests-**

 **Bob- That review was beautiful.**

 **Melkie's Draggie- I shall oblige the Balrog, worry not.**

 **Until next time.**


	16. A Duel of the Fates

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 1.5: A Duel of the Fates**

The Swooshing sound was his only warning.

It was enough.

The Black Blade came to life, was reverse-gripped, and brought with a fluid swing to the back of his armoured neck, deflecting the deadly weapon of his adversary with its broad side. He had not even attempted to turn around- his armour would have been rent apart had he tried.

Sparks of dark energy flew off the halberd and showered on in a deadly barrage at him, but he made no attempt to shield himself. He felt no pain, after all- the vicious dark sorcery did nothing to him. His Black Armour, though broken through by a Vala's fist, was adequate to shield him from it.

Nay- shield him it did not- the bolts seemed to become _quenched_ as soon as they struck the armour, losing all electrostatic energy after striking the dark mail.

The halberd flew back to its owner's hand in the blink of an eye. The Black Blade was doused, the hilt remaining clasped in dark, gauntleted hand.

 _Swoosh._

Again, the halberd was thrown, and expertly deflected, this time by a turn and a twist. The cycle repeated itself, both in wait.

Lord Mormanar was blessed with a sea of calm and a glacier of icy patience. He could not afford to keep Ainunarcar ignited, as it required him to give of his strength.

The shadows no longer obeyed his every whim, and he had to wrest control of them here. His dark power in the realm of fëar was… _diluted,_ as there were no extremely powerful beings of light whose strength he could drain.

Lord Mormanar may have been blessed with a sea of calm, but his opponent was not.

"Dyaaah, Winifred! Giddyup!" came the audible shout, and Mormanar turned the other direction. A flash of lightning he saw at his front- but he heard yet more, and corrected his mistake in time to parry the strike aimed above his shoulder with a hooked-arm swing. The Storm Knight had attacked his back.

His black cloak flew in the night, catching a ghoul-wind created by a ghostly, ethereal horse that had charged at him moments ago. He looked around, masked face turning almost mechanically to and fro.

"Hyaa-heh!" came the shout, and he quickly parried the two strikes aimed at his neck from the side. The Storm Knight drew his halberd back, keeping distance, but Mormanar seized the initiative with a powerful blow, sending the halberd swinging upwards. The Storm Knight quickly spurred his 'mare', as it is judged by the name, and seemingly disappeared into non-existent ether. Ainunarcar cut a clean, sharp line through the rock behind where he was. If he had vanished a second later, Mormanar would have finished him with the throw.

The Doombringer walked over and picked his blade up, choosing not to expend power to summon it to his hand. Silence again.

Mormanar and the Storm Knight both knew that an open-field confrontation would favour Mormanar, whereas a cycle of constant attack and deception may allow an edge to the Storm Knight. It was in the Storm Knight's interest to keep as much distance as possible when attacking, as Mormanar would trounce him in a straightforward duel.

The latter's pompous overconfidence, however, led him to underestimate Mormanar's analytical skill and strategic mastery. He never for once thought that the Doombringer could correctly analyse his fighting patterns and set a trap.

A lightning bolt, genuine in its nature, flashed in a split second upon Mormanar's helm, but it was dodged easily. Speed of light the bolt may have possessed, but Mormanar had felt the heat growing above him and leapt to the side.

Two bolts came at him from sixty and forty-five degree angles, and he moved with inhuman speed to block both the bolts with Ainunarcar. Three bolts from the west, and four from the east. One hand was stretched out to block the lightning at his right, the dark metal conducting the vicious lightning away as if it was harmless, and the black sword was swung to deflect all three bolts at his left in one single motion.

Mormanar knew his armour was strong enough to withstand the Storm Knight's attacks, and if his adversary attempted sorcery of the truly exceptional kind, he most certainly had the will to simply not feel any pain and withstand it all unscathed. He did not, however, wish for the Knight to realise this.

A flash of unnatural, purple lightning. Five bolts from five opposite directions. The halberd thrown intermittently, with a hope to surprise him. Blasts of dark energy somehow exited from the earth at his feet.

Mormanar fought to keep himself in an optimal position at all times. Even in the heat of battle, his mind remained cold and calm at all times. No unnecessary flicks of the wrist or flourishes of the arm were made, conserving all unnecessary movement to grant him more time to deflect the next blow. Through all this, he kept impeccable concentration. In his mind, time seemed to slow down for him to make split-second analyses of attacks at the speed of light, and how best to deflect them.

The halberd made things difficult, as it was a deadly combination of solid metal and terrible lightning. It needed to be deflected in the opposite direction with Ainunarcar at all times. Mormanar did this every time and more, conducting every blast away with his armoured gauntlet.

Seven blasts this time, all at different angles.

Mormanar conducted himself in an uncharacteristic, spectacular twirl in which the cloak obscured his movements and Ainunarcar seemed to flash everywhere. He emerged unscathed, coming as close to 'enjoyment' of the challenge.

"Yer enjoy playin' 'round with me, oi? How 'bowtcher eat this, yer shady dastard!" came an ethereal voice, and Mormanar knew what was coming. He decided to hazard a bit of sorcery- he could always feed on the destructive power of the Storm Knight itself to sustain his shield against it.

The Storm Knight suddenly came into view in front of him, his arms upraised. Two flashes of the same purple lightning were discharged near his hands due to their heat. A wordless screech, followed by the deadliest lightning storm he had ever unleashed.

Mormanar calmly wrested control of what shadows he could find around himself. With a flick of his fingers, the sheer darkness came to him, in the thrall of his will.

A shout of exertion came from the Storm Knight, and he threw down his arms to summon terrible, deadly blasts in a concentrated storm upon Mormanar.

The shadows converged around their lord in a spiralling storm of their own. Tar-like blackness came forth and shielded the Doombringer from the deadly lightning.

The Storm Knight had never before bothered to exert such control over his might to force it to converge upon one target- and now it converged on the worst possible target.

Bolts rained down and down, the darkness was shattered, more shadow came forth to reinforce the barrier, and all was chaos. Dark Light against Dark _Darkness-_ the only victor could be the dark, irrespective of the result. And Mormanar _was_ the dark.

The Storm Knight had never used such focused sorcery before, and thus quickly tired, drained of his strength. Naturally, his rather cowardly nature prompted him to flee, and his ghostly horse sprouted wings (something impossible save for a chaotic maia such as him) and took to the air. He summoned a few stray bolts, hoping to occupy his opponent- but Lord Mormanar was a master of strategy.

The Black shield obscured his features, he knew, and the Storm Knight would not see his attack. A sweep of his dark cloak, deflecting the lightning, a swivel of the foot, and Ainunarcar had struck 'Winifred' before her rider could make head or tail of what had happened.

Mormanar, with his sweeping turn, had just generated enough momentum to throw his sword at the 'horse' and blast it out of the sky. Indeed, 'Winifred' was nowhere to be seen, and as the Storm Knight hazily got up, Mormanar was upon him.

He clumsily brought the shaft of his halberd to awkwardly deflect the Black Sword, with just enough force to throw Mormanar off.

The Doombringer thrust anew with a mighty, angular sequence of hewing blows. Sometimes, Ainunarcar came from the left, sometimes from the right, and all the Storm Knight could do was attempt to hold on to his weapon and offer token parries.

Mormanar, growing 'irritated' due to his constant failure to disarm him, tried an unorthodox move, seeming to attempt a slow hack from the right. The Storm Knight fell for the trap and attempted to strike at his front with the halberd, and the Doombringer changed direction at the last moment to catch the halberd's shaft in the crook of the curved tip of his blade.

He quickly reversed grip and caught the Storm Knight in a loop, the Halberd landing far away.

"Ah, Storm-master, you disappoint me. The Dark Lord holds you in such high esteem." said Mormanar, with a hint of a sneer. This was about how emotional he could be (save for against the Valar), and he displayed again his cold contempt for the Knight.

"Oi, you-y- yer, watchit, I say! N-no p-pointy things 'round 'ere- no-no please, d-don't point 'at at me! How 'bout this- ye- yer let me go, and I- I'll do anything yer wish! Yes, anything, s- so long as…"

Mormanar disobeyed his master's orders.

KKKHHHHTTT!

 **A/N: This took quite some time to write, despite its length. I merely wished to post something in time for all my wonderful readers to enjoy.**

 **I am probably one of the few Londoners at work during Holidays, therefore I figured I might as well put this out. Worry not, I shall update soon. And I promise to update this chapter, and not push in one with the Gondorian perspective to lengthen the cliff-hanging.**

 **Sorry, as always, for said cliffhanger. If you will notice, this is 'Chapter 1.5', and I have already posted chapter 2. Sorry for the little error there, but it is all part of the story…**


	17. Darkness Rises once again

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 3: Darkness Rises once again**

* * *

 _ **Hevensday, 4 Afteryule, 1431 Shire-reckoning**_

 _ **OR 11 Fourth Age**_

* * *

" **NAY, MORMANAR!"**

KKKHHHTTTT.

The Sword of the Doombringer seemed as if frozen in air, a few inches from the Storm Knight's breast. Odd, blue sparks spewed furiously from the dark blade, yet it inched not closer.

It appeared as if someone was holding the blade back, against the wielder's will. Mormanar immediately realised who this someone was, and relinquished applying force on the hilt immediately.

" **Strike him not with your blade! Do you not comprehend how disastrous that could be?!"**

"As you wish, master." said Mormanar. It was probably the first time he had not followed his master's orders to the last.

A lightning bolt stormed down in front of him, and the Storm Knight was gone. In all probability, Mormanar surmised, the Dark Lord had told him to escape while he had the chance while simultaneously restraining him.

He knew he would come to punishment at a later time, and a harsh one at that. Yet, he could not feel pain- for him to feel pain, the Dark Lord would need to feel pain, due to him being an extension of his master's will.

Mormanar had some skill in deduction, and he now perceived that the Dark Lord himself was ordering the Knight's movements, all while restraining the already-weakened Doombringer.

Naturally, he did not question his master's judgment, and with yet another sweep of his cloak, stood in stance. It was all a test, he realised- or so he convinced himself.

The Dark Lord stood at a crossroads. Many ways he could see, some more suited to his goal than others.

The first was, of course, to let the duel go on. Mormanar would, of course, win if he let it go on like it had- but then he feared for the Knight.

He could try to place Mormanar at a further disadvantage, but the Doombringer, despite his titanic will, was veritably tired, and still fighting the influence of the Noldóran's fëa. His armour was rent by a Vala's fist, no less, and he was fighting without employing his power in the realm of fëar, purely relying on his skill.

No, he would not do that. He knew that Mormanar would keep fighting until his armour had been utterly rent and shattered, and the Storm Knight had the capability to do that if Mormanar was to be debilitated.

However, having the Storm Knight win would yield no benefits. The fool would grow arrogant and complacent, and Mormanar would most likely begin to give in to certain emotional tendencies, as evidenced by his attempt to strike at his opponent.

Perhaps there was a benefit in seeing them cancel each other out, or to perhaps intervene before a victor could emerge. He could see certain bright prospects ahead if so, but perhaps it would not bode well for the hierarchy of power he intended to create.

He could leave Mormanar alone and bolster the Storm Knight, or even sieze control of him and test the Doombringer. The Storm Knight could perhaps thus outright win, as Mormanar would not fight his master.

Most likely, though, he would not recognise his mater's hand, and still fight on.

Mormanar had about the same strategic skill as his master, but had a very small edge over the Dark Lord due to his completely analytical, emotionless nature. He was almost mechanical, functioning seemingly on an algorithm of carefully-tuned, dark song. Even the Dark Lord could make a mistake- Mormanar could not.

It would be useless to prolong the duel. He decided to simply voice his thoughts to the Storm Knight, recommend courses-of-action, help him along in the duel and replenish his strength a bit. Mormanar he would leave alone – this was best kept a test.

 _SWOOSH._

Mormanar expected the halberd again, and turned around to deflect it, but it was merely an illusion of sparks. The true halberd came almost at once from the opposite direction, aiming for his neck.

At the last moment, he turned, deflecting it partially- it still rent a hole in the darkness that was his armour.

Another swoosh, and the same trick was carried out, but in a different order- Mormanar deflected the Halberd, which was thrown first, but then a blast of lightning hit his back again, flowing through the hole and leaving him reeling.

It was probably his own intuition, but the Storm Knight's attacks suddenly seemed more strategic, more skilful to him.

Another swoosh, but Mormanar knew it was fake. The same trick would not be attempted another time. He thrust his arms out to block the lightning bolts coming from above him.

The Halberd was thrown again, but no swoosh was heard. Mormanar, however, felt the heat of the air grow, and brought Ainunarcar in a swinging arc to deflect it.

The next move he had been unprepared for, as a blast of electricity came from under his feet of all places, and toppled him.

" _So it is your wish to test me, master… I shall not fail you."_ said he, finally recognising his true opponent.

He decided to use unorthodox tactics- the first step would be to expose himself to danger. He quickly hid his mind and steeled it. In such a state, even the Dark Lord could not penetrate it- that was the downside of such strength that he had bestowed.

Ainunarcar was doused, and the hilt hidden. An arm was thrust out, calling to the shadows.

The Dark Lord, enjoying the challenge, ordered the Storm Knight to immediately dodge. It was a good opportunity to attack Mormanar- but jarring darkness suddenly converged on the Storm-lord. He made it out in the nick of time, thankful for his master's advice.

Mormanar turned around, swept his cloak again, and threw Ainunarcar towards the Storm Knight, now mounted on his impossible steed again. The Knight spurred his 'horse' to the other direction, and Ainunarcar flew back to the dark hand.

It was thrown almost immediately again, and the Knight ducked to avoid it. Mormanar gave a small leap as the sword returned, and with a grand turn, threw it a third time. It seemed to go wide by a long way.

"Yer call that aim? Yer couldn't hit a Mûmak from point-blank…"

" **PARRY, YOU RIDICULOUS IDIOT!"**

The Sword had spun by a great degree, and arced back to him. Only due to his master's warning was he able to bring his halberd up and deflect it.

"Why, yer getting' outter 'and, you! Le' me show you just 'ow a real duellist throws 'is weapon!" said the Knight, and the Dark Lord could only groan.

Mormanar had successfully provoked the Storm Knight to attack, and that too before the Dark Lord could say anything. He had appealed to the Knight's combative and competitive tendencies. He found himself holding a certain level of grudging admiration for his lieutenant.

With a mighty bellow, the Knight threw his weapon directly at the Doombringer's heart, and it flew for with a deadly storm following it.

With ease born of precision, Mormanar thrust his hand out and caught the weapon in an iron grip, catching it before it hit the gap in his armour and holding it still.

The only option left for the Knight was to attack with sorcery, and he did- more lightning flowed from his fingertips, from the halberd, around Mormanar- but the Doombringer was ready.

A Shadowed hand was thrust out, a gap appearing in the gauntleted palm. Nothing but dark shadow could be seen inside. The destructive energy was all sucked up and swallowed up by the might of the void.

It was at that moment the Storm Knight came to know that Mormanar was truly a void. Mormanar himself came to know that he could not sustain himself on the power of the Storm Knight, and could not hold it long due to its chaotic nature- but a little time was enough.

" **I will tolerate your illusions no longer."** A blast of sheer power, energy deconstructed from the Storm Knight's chaotic might, was released forth in all direction from Mormanar's palm. It was utterly soundless, yet efficient. A deadly blast hit the Knight where he was hidden in the clouds, and he fell down to the ground.

Mormanar pushed himself off the earth, Ainunarcar alight with its black flame, and landed directly on top of the Knight, sword pointed down.

His other hand reached toward his face, and carefully, methodically puled the mask off.

It was the first time the Storm Knight beheld those terrible, green eyes. The witch-light in them seemed to enter his soul and light it on fire. It was, however, a cold flame- a deadly flame.

The Storm Knight felt pressure on all sides. His will cracked and gave way to Mormanar's tyrannous force. He just wished to shrink to the size of an ant and never show his head to the world again.

Mormanar stemmed the flow of power in his gaze, and fit the mask back on. He had not gazed at the Storm Knight with his full might- that would have unhoused the latter's fëa- for that was the power of his gaze. Only by looking at one with his true, unmasked eyes could he totally dominate one's fëa, and force it to serve him and sustain him.

He dropped his gaze, allowing the Storm Knight to rise shakily to his feet. The latter would regard him his superior from now on.

The poor Knight had unfortunately struggled onto his feet to fall down again- as there was an eruption of shadow, and the outline of a figure robed in black appeared before them. Perhaps it was all in their minds, perhaps it was a real projection of his silhouette- but The Dark Lord was come, to command his servants.

Mormanar immediately planted his blade deep into the ground and knelt, hand still gripping the hilt. The Storm Knight somehow got into a half-kneeling, half-lying position.

"It is to my hope that I have pleased, Master."

"Excellent, excellent, Mormanar. There is one matter, however- it seems you are not quite as reliable as I thought. I will deal with you… later."

The Storm Knight let out a breath he had been holding. Mormanar spared him one contemptuous glance before saying:

"Yes, my master. Thy will be done- now and forever." The Dark Lord inclined his head once in a nod, appreciating his absolute loyalty and subservience.

"Good, good. I believe it is time to put my plans into action. The Cold North shall rise again- and I entrust you to take the first steps- for now, I have another errand to attend to."

"It is the masterstroke you have spoken of, is it not?"

"Indeed. A startlingly simple move, should one think about it." The Dark Lord spared a glance for the Storm Knight.

"You may rise, Hellërúcir- but rise with the knowledge that you shall receive my lash."

* * *

There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

There was only blackness and blackness and blackness and blackness and blackness and blackness and blackness and blackness and a fell presence and blackness and blackness and… a fell presence. The Nuruhuinë felt a subtle change in the darkness. It was not all monotony- something had changed.

The Void had taken him in its cold grasp, and quite frankly, he craved the monotony for longer. Monotony was now _him._ The void was now his might.

Perhaps a few more moments of calm would have been beneficial for the being who was once Sauron. Who was once Mairon.

The former Dark Lord still needed to get used to the new void that occupied the core of his fëa. He had nothing to lose, he had thought- his core was ripped away due to the loss of his ring- but he had to take his time to get used to this sudden _hunger._

The want of power had driven many an action of his in the past, but never had he felt such a _need,_ an _unquenchable need,_ for power. It was as if he needed to quench never-ending thirst.

The fires in his fëa had all but gone out, save for a little spark he reserved in his fëa. It was there to remind him of who he once was, and exactly why he was rising to fight a futile battle once again. Arda called to him- and he would be nothing if not for his love for her.

The unveiling of a new presence startled him greatly. It was burning with light, yes… but that fire was not pure. It seemed somewhat soiled, somewhat sooty. It was the kind of fire that would hurt him (if he retained the capability of being hurt at all), and would also furnish him with the most power… but not so. Something about it seemed dark. Something had been shadowed.

" _ **Be careful, Champion. A dangerous being is come. Indeed, it is the very opponent thou wilt face."**_ cautioned the Void- but he needed not the warning.

Ever since the Void had touched him and appointed him its Dark Champion, he had felt… cold. Cold had been almost lethal to the Maia known as Mairon. It killed Earth and doused Flame- and those were the two elements that comprised his fëa. Now- he was surrounded by it. Swathed in it. He felt no cold- he felt nothing.

He had lost much of his former self- a necessary sacrifice- and would be startled to know how much he had changed. His emotions, his wearied and scarred emotions, the Void had carefully cast aside and replaced with a cold, analytical quality amounting to ruthlessness.

However, he was a Maia- born of the Flame Imperishable- and that was housed within him. It was perhaps the thinnest, dimmest flame yet observed- but it was still within him. There was only now his love for Arda, and his understanding of her.

The new Nuruhuinë, a cold analyst could say, had several 'improvements' from the old Sauron. He lacked all form of fear, his once greatest defect- for all that he had feared had indeed taken place. He lacked the ability to feel pain- he had simply destroyed that sense and cast it out of his fëa. He retained his power of cold command, and lacked the temptation to recklessness.

One powerful in the realm of fëar would, however, lament this. He lacked much of his innate power. He had once been a beautiful being- and was no more.

The Void had indeed, as the colloquial southron expression went, 'Side-swiped and kiddy-nipped' the Dark Lord. Mormanar, it could be said, was a soulless, heartless version of Mairon- lacking the power of creation and the magic of song, but also without the tendencies of fear, and having greater strategic and analytical skill by far. He was also unquestionably the mightier duellist- but that had never been Mairon's strength.

Now, the Void had sought to remove what 'flaws' he had, and turned him to an entity very much like Mormanar. There was the same ruthlessness, the same unyielding strength and refusal to feel pain, and yet the Void knew, as only It could know, that despite the vast difference in power Its champion was greater. He had a purpose, which he would and had risked utter destruction to achieve- to protect and save Arda. Mormanar had none save for the enforcement of his master's will.

The only thing that remained was skill in combat and prowess in a mêlée, and that was an acquired skill. Sauron himself was aware of this, and it was the first thing he planned to do when he got out of the void- improve his martial prowess. _If_ he got out of the Void.

Now, however, here was a chance to exercise his new powers of iron restraint. He hungered for the power this new being possessed, but held himself back. He let his senses touch the great power, let them hunger, and ruthlessly quelled them.

He adopted a more strategic route- he cast forth his now heightened senses and heard the song the fëa sang.

Although the Nuruhuinë had lost his skill at song, he still could analyse it and break it down to its purest elements like no other.

A song was naught but a mathematical equation. The best music, that of the Ainur, is sung as one would solve a mathematical expression. The power of change they all possessed meant that they had to calculate to produce the perfect song.

The timbre of the voice, the level of sonority- the given attributes that need to be perfectly executed. The pitch is the chief variable- changing from high to low as necessary. The number of vibrations or the frequency is the constant, as there could be only one correct value to satisfy the equation.

This particular song was mighty- but veiled. It was sung with a level of cold surety to it- not the surety of overconfident arrogance but the surety of one who had planned for all eventualities.

He realised with a pang that it sounded much like a song that Mairon would once have sung- Mairon who was dead now.

The Chief of Aulë's maiar had never been quite mighty in the realm of song. Each expression he created was perfectly solved, with just the right variable and the constant values perfectly executed- but his songs lacked a certain _power_ to them.

Melian, chief of the maiar of Lórien, was a being he had always envied. She was not the best mathematician- or indeed one at all- but her songs always had glorious, inherent might. They seemed perfectly guided and executed at all times. He surmised she was gifted by Eru to be great in the lore of music.

This new fëa that had come, it lacked not might- that it had in great abundance, in fact- it lacked nothing one could correctly describe.

It was the same feeling one got when an Elf, who could pronounce a Haradric or a Rhûnic dialect with the grace of a poet, made no attempt at an accent. The words were studied, the equation correctly solved on all counts- but there was a feel of inherent _wrongness_ to it.

The being singing this song _should not be singing this song._ It was a song more suited to the likes of Melkor, rather than this being of light. It sounded as if a Sindarin elf was asked to pronounce the Black Speech.

The song was also veiled. The being was coming close. Sauron could feel its electromagnetic signature. Extremely tight wavelengths beyond anything before seen. It provoked an image in the ultraviolet range of the spectrum- no colour could be seen of the fëa.

The fëa surged forth and suddenly stopped. The Dark Lord had reached his destination.

Before him lay a chained figure. It appeared debilitated and wounded- but not quite so much as it had been when cast into the void.

It was the only true _Body,_ the only physical form to be found in the Void. Dark hair flowed in a curtain over an obscured, scarred face. The chain glowed bright hot and red, and had cut many bruises into the being's pale, fair skin- but one hand was free, the cuff swallowed up by the Void's darkness.

The fëa, ripped though it had been, burnt with raw _power._ It sang a song of might- _it was might. Might in its purest form._

Change. Chaos. Destruction- and again. The cycle goes on. The song was pure discord, pure chaos- and despite the singer having been struck down and utterly defeated, he had somehow managed to put himself back together. He had reordered his mind.

The Dark Lord noted with that scientific curiosity that his hewn feet had grown back.

The Void's tendrils curled almost _protectively_ around a concealed Sauron, seeking to shield him from the notice of both these beings. The newcomer- The Dark Lord. The greatest threat Arda currently faced.

The Old One- The Dark Lord of All Evil that ever was, or shall be. The creator of Evil. The Greatest threat Arda had ever faced.

" **So, thou hast come at last, hast thou not…** _ **little one."**_ said Melkor, turning his face up to meet the cold, black eye of the New Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord said nothing.

" **It would appear that my efforts were not to waste. Arda- she doth** _ **call**_ **to me. I have sown my seed in her womb, and she will return unto me what is mine. My brethren grow weary of time, it seemeth… I had never imagined thou wouldst be the first to fall."**

"Fall- thou sayest- I have merely come to a realisation… Belekōrōz. Perhaps thou hast had a hand I failed to see… no longer."

A Dark Key, a Small Key, appeared between the Dark Lord's fingers. A mighty song of crafting he had sung, and this was the fruit. He let go of the key, and by a simple flick of his will, Melkor called the key to hover in front of the keyhole in Angainor. A savage smile of pure evil lit his face, as the key slowly descended and turned.

The Dark Lord stayed cold and emotionless.

* * *

 **A/N: And He has returned…**

 **I have received many suggestions for the name of the Storm Knight, including some very good names such as 'Raumorandir', (Wandering Lightning/Storm) 'K** **ánoskhilmë' (Commander of the Skies), 'Morraumo' (Black Storm) and 'Heruraumo' (Lord of the Storm), along with an admittedly brilliant Joke Name, 'Moron' (Dark One).**

 **However, I did not like the sound of the word 'Raumo' (Storm), and felt that the prefix 'Mor' was overused. Therefore, I chose to opt for an unconventional name.**

 **I was actually inspired by the non-canonical scene in the 'Fellowship of the Ring' movie in which Saruman enforces his will upon Caradhras and summons an avalanche. He shouts:**

" **Cuiva nwalca Carnirassë, Nai yarvaxëa rasselya, taltuva notto-carinnar!" (Awake, cruel Redhorn, may your horn be bloodstained and fall upon enemy heads!")**

 **He also seems to conjure storm-clouds and send them towards Caradhras. The phrase 'fall upon enemy heads' inspired me. I leafed through my little Quenya handbook and found a phrase 'Nu fanyarë rúcina'- Under ruinous skies.**

 **Fanyarë- Sky- has a synonym, Hellë, which I liked due to the first four letters.**

' **Rúcina' is an adjective meaning 'ruinous'. In Quenya, one adds an '-r' to make an adjective refer to a person in one word, for eg. 'Nehta' (to slay) becomes 'Nehtar' (slayer).**

 **Therefore, rúcina became rúcir.**

 **Hellërúcir- The destroyer of the skies**


	18. The Dark Lord of Arda Ascendant

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 4: The Dark Lord of Arda Ascendant**

* * *

 _ **Morgoth rose, and his rise was terrible. So devastating in his wrath, so tyrannous in his eternal evil- so magnificent in his might and so majestic in his dark splendour.**_

 _ **The Shackles of Angainor which bound him fell away, as would all his enemies. The Darkness had come again. Burning, Morgoth burst from the chain, obliterating it with regained might.**_

 _ **The Darkness had come again.**_

* * *

Morgoth rose, and his body rose with his fëa. Waves of might, though diminished, rippled off his form.

He had… _missed…_ Arda. She had called to him- his power, buried deep within her, had called to him. Oh, how he would enjoy tormenting her again…

His power returned to his form, as he reacquainted himself with the nuances of freedom. It had been a very long time indeed. His hatred and his anger were always with him, but his cunning and his initiative returned with movement.

He flexed the dark fingers of his blackened palm, and cracked a smile- beautiful and terrible. The curve of the perfect pink lips, unsullied despite the years in Angband and the captivity in the Void, was like a piercing dagger. He stood, embracing the moment.

The new Dark Lord said nothing. There he was, with his hands crossed, his face a mask of stone. He might have been wiped from Arda's circles, for all Morgoth cared. He would be dealt with later- a Dark Lord never tolerated competition, least of all Morgoth.

" **Void! Come to me; gift me thy power dark and eternal, and thy purpose I shall fulfil. Let thy darkness come again to these hands mine, and bring annihilation to the peoples of Arda once more! Give me thy power, and let me subsume thee! My prison, now my might become!"** said Melkor, stretching his arms out wide and calling for the Void's darkness- the only darkness he was not the master of. He was aware of the Void's immense dark power, and planned to make good use of it.

" _ **Nay! Thou art not and shalt ne'er be my champion. Thou art banned."**_ The Void responded, very unexpectedly. Melkor was shocked. If not him, then who? Who could be the Void's champion, if not him? Who better? Who _else?_

This question he would have considered, had he not been fuming over the word 'banned'. Banned. _Banned._

The Words used by the Valar to suppress his might. The words used by his hated Atar.

Melkor had loved and hated his Atar as he loved and hated his nature. Atar had given him the most power, indeed- Atar had sidelined him for his nonsensical brother.

Atar had given him the will to create chaos- Atar turned the others against him for creating chaos.

After his fall, he realised that there were two sides of his Atar- the Lord of Light on the eternal throne in the Timeless halls, who contained Eä within Him- and the Lord of Darkness who remained as shadowy ether, everywhere inside the Lord of Light and therefore to be found everywhere in Eä.

This shadow, manifest as the Void, had truly given him valuable advice, even after his fall from grace. However, who was Melkor to follow another? Soon, he started obeying his own whims despite his Atar's warnings, and poured his essence into Arda. Soon he became weakened, and lost his connection to Atar.

Then Atar had imprisoned him, and finally, treated him with the last straw- _rejection._ Even the Dark-Atar he had come to value now rejected him- it roused waves and waves of hatred in which to destroy the world.

" **Atar! Atar, dost thou hear me? Thou knowest what I think, as thou knowest all, but I shall defy thee, and with time, I shall take thy Void for my own! Arda will be mine, E** **ä** **will be mine, and all shall fall before me!"**

 _No Answer._

" **Look thee unto thy world! Dost thou see thy child? Thy child, who doth stand before me, with a cold façade he hath crafted to hide his intention! I have turned him, and he is come to realisation at last! He will aid me, will he not? No question can be made of that! And piece by little piece, thy harmony will fall to mine!"**

Morgoth roared in triumph, and rose. Fire leapt to his hands, as he walked forth to incinerate the Door of Night, and unleash his calamitous might upon Arda once more. As always, he was ignorant that he had committed one fatal mistake…

A terrible light, and _Morgoth was blasted back._ The Dark Lord, that immovable statue, had just moved. The same terrible light rose to crown the new Dark Lord- not a light of hope but that of death. In his eyes awoke a fire ancient, a blaze that frightened Morgoth to the greatest extent.

No longer cold the Dark Lord was, no longer impassive- he was fearsome and terrible to behold. His wrath was not burning fire but ice-cold frost, and more terrifying than any flaming rage. His black eyes glinted with a fell light once holy, and Morgoth was afraid.

" _Thou shalt wound us no longer."_ said the Dark Lord, and Ilúvatar's firstborn was blasted back even further. Such a spatial matter was inconsequent in the Void, yet Morgoth was thrown back further. The Lord of the Dark advanced upon him, his eyes no longer burning with the ancient flame, but an eerie witch-light. They glowed emerald, but were interspersed by the white of the Flame of Anor.

The fell light of doom to be seen in the eyes of the Dark Lord was not as potent as that of Mormanar, but the Dark Lord was a child of Eru and thus had the flame imperishable within him. And so Morgoth hated him and feared him- although he too possessed the almighty flame, he had blotted his core with malice and could not access it.

" **How darest thou, cur!"** he roared, in an act of bravado, and rose- but then the Dark Lord struck.

Pain immeasurable filled Melkor and encompassed his senses. The wounds dealt to him by Fingolfin were like pinpricks compared to this. The choking webs of Ungoliant were like soft cocoons compared to the pain that enveloped him. Only the Silmarilli, which charred his hands, could compare- but those had only been his hands.

This was not pain of the hröa, as the former two incidents had been- this was pain of the fëa. Melkor fell to the flat plane of the Void's darkness. The Dark Lord had whipped him with something, and that thing, he decided, was the worst thing in Eä and beyond.

He looked up haltingly, to see the Dark Lord having conjured a darkened crimson flame, interspersed with black. A long, thin, ethereal whip of the deadly flame was in his hand, and he swung it. The same, terrible sensation filled him again, and he howled in pain.

" _Thou shalt hurt my brethren no longer!"_ shouted the Dark Lord, and for once, Melkor detected grief in his stone-masked face. A solitary tear came down from the Dark Lord's eye, but Melkor could detect no hatred or vengeance- only Justice. Justice that must be done.

" **Thy brethren- aaaah!"** the Dark Lord struck him again.

" **Thy brethren are mine as well! I did not- aaarrrgh!"** another stroke.

" _Thou art not one of us. Thou wert once, but thou hast forsaken us! Justice be done upon thee, 'Belek_ _ō_ _r_ _ō_ _z'!"_ The Dark Lord struck again, to another howl of pain. He dissipated the flames, allowing his fallen brother to finish.

" **Please. P-please! Hurt me not! 'Twas- 'twas truly a difficult choice to make! I- I loved them- still do, and…"**

" _Thou dost love none save thyself."_ said the Dark Lord coldly, detecting the lie. Another whip stroke, another part of the Dark Vala's fëa battered and beaten.

" **Nay! Nay! H-hurt me not- gnaaargh!"** the Dark Lord struck again.

" _Ages uncounted we fought thee, and thou hast torn each of us apart. Thou didst bring ruin to all our works. Thou didst corrupt our maiar- our children! Tell me, Belek_ _ō_ _r_ _ō_ _z, wouldst thou have done aught of that if thou hadst loved us_? _And didst thou truly think thou couldst escape without due justice_?" he roared, and struck again.

" **Aaah! Fine! Thou shalt have the truth- thy brethren are weak, as art thou! Ye know naught! Ye art naught! Arda was mine, and 'twas mine since the beginning! I sat not on a coven throne in a paradise land, like thy brethren! I did what was necessary, and I- nyeeeaaaah!"**

A merciless lash hit him then, and his will started to break.

" _Thou art monstrous, Belek_ _ō_ _r_ _ō_ _z- but thou hast opened mine eyes. Evil is necessary. Light would not be if not for Darkness. I shall restore Arda, and bring order to thy chaos. I shall have thy strength, and I shall take thy darkness. For that, there yet remains another necessary evil I must commit. Thy will must give. I am sorry- brother."_

" **Nay! I pray thee, by Atar, nay! I can be useful to thee! If thou dost let me out, I can help thee overcome my brethren! My darkness is at thy service- ah, Atar, please! PLEASE!"**

But there was no Atar to heed him, no Atar to listen to him. His screams turned to wails, as the Dark Lord mercilessly resumed, meting out punishment in proportion to his crimes. It was well deserved- but did anyone deserve to be torn apart by such darkness?

The Dark Lord threw the question out of his mind, reminding himself that it was for Arda. Anything for Arda. Melkor had hurt her, and to help her, he had to hurt Melkor. He knew what hurt Ainur now- the _Ru_ _š_ _ur du_ _š_ _am_ _â_ _nai_ _š_ _al. The Nancarn_ _á_ _r._ It was truly the most dangerous weapon any entity could wield. The flames could only be conjured by a true master of doom. One had to lack any emotion save, perhaps, the will for justice. One had to push aside one's love _and_ hatred, for the reason that this power was not to be used for one's own aims.

" _Thou shalt taint Arda no longer."_ said the Dark Lord, and with grim resolve, slammed his ill into Melkor's, breaking it. Soon, the full might of Darkness would be his- a necessary evil.

He snuffed out the crimson flames. He was quite aware that Mormanar could conjure pure black flame, the most potent possible, and would one day come to wield it- hopefully with devastating effect.

Melkor's darkness began to leave his hröa, his will having been beaten and utterly subjugated. The full might of Change and Chaos came as a wave of energy upon the Dark Lord. The force upon his fëa was shattering, but was ther nay as immovable as the Dark Lord? Nay- he stood his ground.

A new sensation assailed him- pain of a kind he had never before experienced. It was almost sweet, somehow satisfying- yet painful nonetheless. He felt that there was something inherently _wrong_ about himself. His fëa would take time to adjust to his new chaotic might- perhaps it would never- but it was a necessary step. A necessary evil.

Self-loathing and disgust filled him- he now was he wielder of the most foul and tainted power in Eä. However, power was power, and he needed it in abundance.

A point came when he could not take anymore and retain his sanity. The things he loved he found himself hating… and the things he hated he wished to rip apart if it was the last thing he did. A terrible hate of all things of the light filled him- but he had been prepared. His mind had steeled itself and his consciousness had withdrawn deep within his fëa. The state the Dark Lord found himself in was akin to the Calm eye at the centre of a terrible, raging storm.

He stopped the flow of power, and Morgoth flopped to the ground, utterly defeated. He was now the most powerful being in Eä- now there was only the matter of wresting control over the Shadows of Arda, and mastering the Darkness Morgoth had woven into her fabric.

" _I leave thee, Belek_ _ō_ _r_ _ō_ _z. Know that thou hast failed… and succeeded. Thy objective of Chaos shall never come to pass- yet the order thy brethren have established will fall to me."_

A sweep of the majestic cloak, and the Dark Lord was gone.

* * *

The land was cold.

Arnor was reclaimed, and the North-Kingdom was flourishing, yet the land was cold.

The lands of Arthedain and Cardolan, and even those of Rhudaur, had been claimed by King Elessar and unified as Arnor Envinyata- yet the land was cold.

There was one land that had been forgotten- the Fell Kingdom of Angmar, named by the Elves as the Iron Home of the Witch-king, and otherwise known as the Perished Land. So covered in snow and so desolate were the wastes of the North that nothing could grow.

The Land had been left open by Sauron's servants for millennia, yet the Fell Sorcery that once reigned had is effect, and with the elves lacking enough strength to purge the land of all taint, it remained uninhabited. Apart from the King's clandestine expedition to the land eleven years ago, none had set foot in the fell kingdom.

The North-Kingdom was based in Fornost, the Old Fortress- for convenience and for the fact that it held a great symbolic value. Annúminas, the Old Capital, and the height of glory in its days, was the subject of a grand rebuilding. Many had gone to live in the ancient capital, yet Aragorn had decided against declaring it the crown jewel of the North once again, as he wished to build a strong economy before undertaking any ambitious architectural projects.

None but Aragorn knew the secrets of what he had found by the Palantír. He had sent a search party incognito, led by Elladan and Elrohir, to investigate his findings, while he himself conducted a search in Ithilien.

Apart from that small intrusion, Angmar had rested in silence for many a year, and was expected to stay desolate for many more before any decided to settle.

 _FLUMP._

The Silence was broken. A heavy, armoured boot hit the icy land. No soft snow had formed, but hard ice, as the land seemed to have an ill-humour about it and never allowed soft flakes to form.

 _FLUMP._

Lord Mormanar Death-master, as he was now titled, retracted the experimental step, finding it too loud for his taste. A little shadow came at his beckoning, and obscured his armoured boots. His cloak seemed to flutter up and completely conceal all but the top of his armour at the front. He glided silently.

 _CRASH._

A mild wave of irritation came at what was deduced to be the entry of his companion.

Hellërúcir, the Lord of Storms, had for some reason found it necessary to summon a lightning-bolt at his feet when he materialised. Naturally, it had split the ice apart and drawn him into the crater formed.

Mormanar glided slowly around, surveying the scene and paying no attention to the Storm Knight, who was pathetically attempting to claw his way back out and slipping constantly. They were dangerously close to the Hills of Rhudaur, he realised- but far enough. A few days' travel, and they would be at Carn Dûm.

It was still winter, and winters at Angmar were harsh- even after the reclamation. Cold hail in the night had created icy spurs and stalagmites on the open ground. The Doombringer's black cloak billowed around ominously, as he continued to glide. The Storm Knight tired of his own attempts, and simply dissolved his form (choosing to not summon a thunderbolt) and materialising outside the crater, having travelled as an ethereal spark.

It was clear to Mormanar why exactly his master had chosen Angmar as the base of his power. Strategic master that he was, he could easily see the practical and psychological yield it would give.

They had wished a place that was not Mordor, for it was _dead_ as a land, and having no power left to it, was nothing more than an abyss. Mordor was also too close to Gondor and its military might for their comfort.

Rhûn and Harad had many people living, and these people had reportedly established a nonaggression pact and trade agreement with Elessar.

Anywhere west was too _pure_ and there were little shadows to take control of.

Perhaps they could establish a new land, but this suited them best- a menace kept hidden and yet present for all to see. The men would not first look to Angmar- but they would eventually when they realised that evil was at work. It would strike a fear of the unknown into their hearts.

Besides, Angmar as a location was highly defensible. Sauron had known this, but he had never realised its full potential- it was not simply a matter of the terrain and harsh climate, but its location- it was impossible to outflank. A breaching siege could not be made. At the extreme north of Middle-earth, it had various similarities with Ang _band,_ the cruel fortress that inspired it.

The Dark Lord could manoeuvre a siege in ways Sauron could not, for he was far more powerful. He could move mountains and reorder the blizzards to a schedule. He could unleash might that was dormant in the dark mountains. He could make Morgoth's shadows swoop out and prey on unsuspecting creatures of the light.

It was, in all, the best place which could be defended by just two against an army.

The entire kingdom was a massive choke-point.

"Oi, Manny? Or, should I call yer Morey? Morman? Watchyer know, 'is majestalevolence sent us to a dump! What d'yer think we can do 'ere? Place is a ramshackle old waste, don't yer think? Utterly useless."

Mormanar looked irritably at the Storm Knight, astride his steed again, trotting along apace with him. He looked at him coldly, with the slightest hint of a sneer.

"It is to my ill-fortune, then, that I happen to be acquainted with 'a ramshackle old waste' who I think utterly useless." said he, the cold, deep voice ringing with dislike- no, _distaste._ If he had any true emotion, he would have been proud of that particular verbal joust.

"Oh, really, and 'oo might that be? Knowing yer, it'd- oh, that's what yer mean! Oh, yer cheeky sod, yer…"

Mormanar had grown impatient, contrary to his usual nature. This was the last straw. He seized control of a little wandering shadow, and had it rub rather harshly with the Storm Knight's armour at the cheek. A resounding gong was heard- the gesture could be interpreted as a slap.

"Ow! Oh, lordy, yer really are an 'andful, aren't yer…"

Perhaps that was too soft. Mormanar took control of a number of other spirits of Darkness and had them collide violently against his companion's other cheek- what would be termed a rather vicious backhand.

The chaotic maia could be rather clever when he chose to actually use his wits, and decided against saying anything further. He had now discovered that Mormanar had an ire he could rouse. Brilliant. Better not rouse it anymore, except when he was in dire need of entertainment. While fighting a battle.

As for Mormanar, he spent the time convincing himself that the slap had been purely for practical reasons, to put the Knight in line.

They had only walked a few miles when the Storm Knight got bored, and had spurred his 'mare' on with a loud 'Dyaah!' and had galloped off. Mormanar knew with certainty that he would get lost, and would come scrambling back to him eventually. He pulled his cloak of shadows a little more around himself, making himself rather harder to detect, and glided on.

Days passed, and Mormanar glided without a pause. He recorded the geography of the land, and stowed the information away in his memory. Eventually, after three days, the Storm Knight turned up with many scratches on his armour, the mare Winifred looking exhausted. Apparently, the Storm Knight had had to call upon the Dark Lord for help in locating Mormanar, and the latter was not sure where his sudden bout of satisfaction came from.

The Doombringer simply ignored the Storm Knight's chatter (which did not cease for a second) and they continued on their way- on the fifth day, they were at the 'Gate' to the mountain pass.

It was a narrow ravine, enclosed and snow-capped at the top, which led to Carn Dûm, the citadel of the Iron Crown.

Mormanar ignited Ainunarcar and cut a clean rectangle through the rocks of the ravine's wall, and having cut enough, simply blasted his way through the rock with his shadows.

The Storm Knight was helpful (for once) and instead of summoning lightning bolts to create an avalanche, went for the wiser choice and carved a path through with his halberd.

There they 'rested', in their makeshift cave, until at night the Dark Lord saw fit to call upon them.

" **It would seem you have done well, Mormanar…"**

"I 'elped too, didn't I, master?"

"… **to have concealed your identity** _ **despite**_ **this insufferable fool."**

The Storm Knight's expression comically drooped, but his face was completely covered by his armour and Mormanar would have dismissed it as trivial anyway.

"I take it that your fëa has reached a point of stability so that your hröa can function adequately, master?" said Mormanar, not out of concern- it was merely to calculate how soon his master would be well enough for him to make the next move.

" **My state is adequate enough. Pain beyond pain did I suffer when I left the Void- curious that its influence seemed to dull and lessen it- yet the steel of my mind endures as it shall forever. I am no longer who I was- and this, I believe, marks the time I move my first real piece on the board."**

The Storm Knight understood nothing of this, but somehow felt a new… _harmony_ with his master, albeit an oxymoronic one- harmony between chaos. His master was no longer the barred, inscrutable being of perfect order he previously was, but was now tainted with the might of discordant music.

Mormanar, not being a maia, could not sense anything off about it, and set it aside, noting the fact that the Void seemed to have an influence. Now was the moment he came to know of his master's plan- a plan even he hadn't been able to deduce and was not privy to.

"I wish you are now well, master" – he said indifferently – "What is your will you would have me enact?"

" **That is why I am speaking to you today. I remember indicating to you that I plan to…** _ **set right…**_ **certain matters of Arda's past. However, a vision seems to have come to me to indicate that whatever changes one may make in the past will affect the future and the present. The scroll of time as it stands now is perfectly readable for me- but should alterations be made, even if it be by my own hand, it will become blurred and the ink will change. The threads will be lost to me and I will begin to forfeit my powers of foresight- that is Il** **ú** **vatar's curse."**

Mormanar took this in, recalling his own thoughts at Alqualondë- _'Soon they will lack a past to look back upon'._ He had pushed it away for the moment, but remembered it as a little muse made to himself when he had discovered, after an analysis, that the Dark Lord wished to do something involving the past.

His memory shifted to an event thirteen years ago, which had occurred soon after his creation- the most important moment in his life. On that day he had assailed none and slain none, indeed he had lacked a body- he had simply observed. The Battle of the Black Gate.

He knew not why it was the most important event, but he knew the Dark Lord regarded it as such. He had recorded each detail to a fault, and by iron discipline had retained each fact until now.

" **Yes, my apprentice, yes. That is the very day I refer to. I called it 'a matter of importance', if I remember- most certainly, it is. Since your creation, you have had a fatal flaw- you have no innate power of your own."**

"Well, obviously, 'cause 'e lacks the flame imperishable, which I 'ave, less no' forget…" said the Storm Knight, thinking himself very clever, and was mentally silenced by his master.

" **You cannot sing, either. Every time you reached out with your will to summon the shadows or alter any single atom of the world, you expended some of the power you had earned by defeating opponents. Therefore, I worked it into your nature to be conservative, and to be a masterful combatant and strategist- but no longer. I have discovered a way around it.**

 **We cannot change the past- doing so would lose me my foresight, which is too valuable a resource to squander, but we can subtly manipulate it. Alter it in small, subtle ways which do not change history, but have an impact on the future. I have discovered a way to manipulate the past, and thus will change it."**

"Oh, great, jus' make 'im even more powerful than 'e already is! Does no one care for me? Why is it always Mormanar, Mormanar, Mormanaaaaaarh!" The Dark Lord had summoned a rock and hit him on the head.

" **Hell** **ë** **r** **ú** **cir…"** said the Dark Lord, turning to the Storm Knight, who had flopped onto the ground. The Knight looked a bit dizzy, but snapped to his senses seeing his master mentally scrutinise them.

"Sorry, sorry m'liege, I'm sorry I offended your grandilardence…"

" **Tell me the truth or you will die. After the battle with the forces of Amroth and the Black N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean, you said that the latter, riding on a dragon, wielded a mighty mace?"**

Mormanar knew nothing of this, and knew that there was a reason the Dark Lord did not tell him. Undoubtedly, he wished Mormanar's attention on other matters.

"Yes, yes m'lord- it was all big and black with spikes and…"

" **And tell me, did you attempt to murder him with a storm?"**

"Y-yes…"

" **Was it a storm specifically aimed at him?"**

"Yes, I-I was the mos' focused I've e'er been on that one…"

" **Tell the truth-** _ **FOCUSED magic?"**_

"The best I can do!"

" **And pray tell, in** _ **the simplest possible language,**_ **what happened afterwards?"**

"Erm- 'e- 'e- er, 'e blasted it all back. I see 'im in the air, on that great big cold-drake of 'is, and then I summon a storm on 'im. The eagle pops out. The fellow cannot escape, so 'e lifts 'is mace, and flash! Bang! Me lightnin's all gone!"

" **And?"** The Dark Lord asked, managing to be patient and demanding at the same time.

"Well, I sawr 'im 'oldin' up 'is mace wivout a scratch ter mark 'im, and that spiky weapon was glowin' wiv some sort of glowy-magic!"

" **I told you, the simplest terms! If it is sparks you mean, plainly say so!"**

"Blimey, 'ow did yer know, master? Believe it or not, they did look loike sparks to me! Well, 'e took up 'is mace, and then before I knew, 'e'd 'urled it wiv all 'is might at the blob o' Soldiers, shoutin' something in Black Speech, I think – that language is a pain in the bleedin' neck – and what is left of 'is army runs away! And then crash! Ka-boom! Frag! S'all gone!"

" **An explosion?"**

"Yes, and one o' the 'ighest quality, sire! No friendly-fire whassoever, every bol seemin' ter hit troops, and the blast sent out this shockwave that killed all on touch."

" **Exactly!"**

For the first time, Mormanar found himself confused.

"Pardon me for my lack of intuition, master, but I cannot tie all these ends to a single matter as You undoubtedly can."

" **All will be explained, Mormanar. Hell** **ë** **r** **ú** **cir says, as he will now stand by it, that from what little of the mace he could see, it was very intricately carved- I believed the terms he used were…"**

"Bedazzlingly fancy-pansy, yes, master…"

" **And yet not the most practical. A lot of spikes, and a mace head disproportional to the mass of the handle. I have spent a lot of time since this event tracking the tale of the very Black N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean, Herumor the Dark Marshal, who wielded it. I can see the past of all, as you know, but must have them bought to my attention. It seems that this mace was a gift given to him by Sauron himself- an imperfect, albeit very mighty weapon made in a replica of that of his servant, the Witch-King. That would explain the intricate- albeit not very practical- crafting.**

 **This mace holds great power, as I saw, and for a brief moment was able to hold Hell** **ë** **r** **ú** **cir's chaotic power and expel it out in a more efficient manner. That confirms two of my theories- that Sauron's power is not yet gone after his demise- and that such a weapon could act as a conduit. A conduit of the dark, to hold power when power it is fed, and to release it at the perfect moment.**

 **Such an item would be perfect for you- it would allow you to retain power and to use it, thus ensuring that no power is completely spent, and conservative actions are not needed."**

Ignoring the Storm Knight's huff, Mormanar took it all in, in deep thought. He finally said:

"Surely, master, having such an item for myself would not allow me to keep power that I expend as my own?"

" **Ah, Mormanar. You know which item I speak of, yet refuse to believe it. It would be** _ **irrational,**_ **as you would say- indeed** _ **improbable.**_ **But not** _ **impossible.**_ **You know I refer to an item from the hand of the same smith who forged the mace- something that is powerful enough to keep all power it gains within itself, for its master to use forever. The greatest possible conduit of might- yet a terrible weapon in its own right. Middle-earth would have been doomed if Sauron had realised its full potential."**

Understanding flooded Mormanar, and he bent his head and the twisted iron crown upon it in acknowledgement. His deep, resonant and wholly menacing voice pronounced the next two words more ominously than that of any other- even that of the one who had invented the language.

* * *

' _ **Ash Nazg durbatul**_ _ **û**_ _ **k,**_

 _ **Ash Nazg gimbatul,**_

 _ **Ash Nazg thrankatul**_ _ **û**_ _ **k**_

 _ **Agh burzum-ishi Krimpatul!'**_

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 _ **Ru**_ _ **š**_ _ **ur du**_ _ **š**_ _ **am**_ _ **â**_ _ **nai**_ _ **š**_ _ **al (**_ **Valarin): The Marred Flame**

 _ **Nancarn**_ _ **á**_ _ **r**_ **(Quenya): Flame of Annihilation/Undoing**

 **The above are one and the same thing- essentially the antithesis of the Flame Imperishable. It is the substance the Void is made out of, and the reason why it can rip apart beings. It also happens to be entirely my creation.**

 **It manifests as a cold, black flame that brings instant death upon contact, except to beings with the mightiest of wills- such as Valar or powerful Maiar.**

 **To conjure the flame, one must have only the wish to bring doom. There must be an urge to wipe the target out entirely- but not out of hate. It must be done out of calm judgment.**

 **Naturally, if one bears any love whatsoever for the target or those the target cherishes, then one cannot conjure it. These conditions contrive to make it impossible for one with any emotion to use it.**

 **Essentially, it is a little side-tool left by Eru- one sees that in E** **ä** **, quite literally EVERYTHING has at least one opposite or antithesis. Therefore, this is the antithesis of the flame imperishable. The former brings life- this brings death.**

 **The Dark Lord is able to silence and repress his emotions long enough to deliver judgment.**

 **Mormanar, however, is almost completely emotionless, and bears no love for anything at all- and hence is the perfect candidate to use this ability. However, one needs a level of innate power to sustain the flames long enough to eradicate the bonds that hold a target's f** **ë** **a together, and hence he cannot use this ability- but not for long.**

* * *

 **A/N: Well, it has been a long time, hasn't it? It would seem that work has finally caught up with me. I find it hard to write in those little snippets of time that I get, and was working out just how the Dark Lord will manipulate time with it all being** _ **possible**_ **in Tolkien's world- possible as in not wholly AU in an over-the-top manner.**

 **The next chapter is well underway, and I shall lower the sheer level of cataclysmic probability a little- that commodity has been dangerously high over the last two chapters.**

 **If anyone** _ **really**_ **wants to know the etymology of the Valarin, please inform me via PM or preferably via review. I shall let you know if that is the case.**


	19. Of the Land of the Rising Sun

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 4: Of the Land of the Rising Sun**

The dark cave looked as it always had, secluded and desolate. It was the chief marvel of Rhûn, with a mine of iron in its lower reaches, and a mine of gold and silver in the nethermost depths it sank to.

There was something about the cave which seemed to prohibit entry. Much like the Púkel-men that guarded Dunharrow, there was something foreboding about this place. Something private. A resting power, not wishing to be woken. It was impossibly quiet.

Herumor the Dark Marshal, the last of the Núménoreans, felt the familiar pang he ever did when he came to this place. This was the seat of power in Rhûn, not the famed Marble Palace of the Rhûnic King.

The Jagged throne of white marble was indeed the place where the Ruler sat and governed, but it was not the place where the decisions of the most importance were made.

It was with a prick of guilt that the last of Sauron's Servants realised that he would not be as welcome here as he had been but fifteen years ago. It was a long time for a mortal life- but not for Herumor, who had lived more than four thousand years- more than fifty average lifespans.

He had not gained an elvish mentality- he would never 'thrive on memory' – most of his memories were painful and regretted – but he did know how an age could pass without him noticing it. Lives could pass in the blink of an eye- hence, he had to be careful not to blink.

He was come to the Mines of **Gibshîn-magalyul** , a place of great power. The mines 'built' by the Dwarves of the Ironfist Clan. The Four Clans of Dwarves had now been forced to take up residence in the Orocarni to the north and the Grey Mountains to the south- and a third flank of dwarves, the Longbeards of the Iron Hills- perhaps the most formidable of their people- resided in the northwest.

When Buri Ironfist, the great architect of that clan had built the mines for the then-king Darjûn, it was quite a prize construction indeed- a mine of Gold, Silver, Ruby, Iron, Manganese and Copper, the only one of its kind in the world. However, before the end of the Second Age, it was become the prime seat of power in the east.

Though mining continued in the ancient hold, it was now the residence of the Nár-Rîm, the great martial order created by the first and only Easterling Emperor- Kân Mûl-Dúršunûr, later dreaded and feared as the Nazgûl Khamûl.

The former Nazgûl had been but a petty slave of the wealth-hoarding easterlings in the middle of the Second Age, but rose and rose through the ranks, slaying master after cruel master, gaining the support of people all over the east before creating the Kingdom of Rhûn. He styled himself 'Emperor of the East' and established an iron hold over the lands, gaining the support of the people who wished to rise and slaying those would hinder them.

He wished to turn his nation into one superior- creating a great Martial Order of gold-bedecked warriors, training them himself, and wreaking havoc upon the forces of Sauron himself! Mordor was driven back, to no counterattack of the Dark Lord (a purposeful move), and the Black Easterling turned his attention to the Dwarves who would mine his land for its riches.

In force he came upon the mines, with an army filled with anything from petty Clansmen to Elite Knights of the Nár-Rîm, and no matter how skilled the Dwarves were and how valiantly they fought, they were outnumbered. The runes of power they had etched upon the gate would not, however, yield entry- and then Khamûl came himself, on a mighty fire-drake from the withered heath he claimed to have himself tamed, and wrought ruin upon the dwarves- but the rock did not yield.

Many conquests did Kham l lead against Durin's folk, the Nár-Rîm becoming specifically trained to fight foes stronger than themselves, yet he was a benevolent ruler to his own people and secured their lands. He drove the Dwarves back to their mountain-holds, built walls to fortify his kingdom, and kept silent watch against Mordor. The Núménoreans he did not trust in the least, and denied them trade when they came exploring.

In his most ingenious moment, he created an interlinked trade within Rhûn itself- linking economies between different regions and tribes- and made them self-sufficient. The Gold in the mines was never used for trade- it was only ever used to forge the armour of the mightiest of the Nár-Rîm.

When the Núménoreans came to make conquest, the walls held, and Khamûl's Rhûn was among the only kingdoms not vassalised. In his last days, the Emperor forged a mighty alliance with Indûr of Harad and Arkhâsh of Khand, securing power in the east. Even when Khamûl received a ring and turned wraith, Rhûn held strong against Ar-Pharazôn's Núménor. The Coast was almost entirely conquered, but the Nár-Rîm-led defence of the mines and the use of the Drakes of Khamûl held the men back, until the ambitious King, persuaded by Sauron (who wished to keep Rhûn intact) stayed the invasion.

From then on, no Emperor ever ruled the east- only Kings. Kings who never sat upon the Black Easterling's jagged throne. The Fire-drakes birthed from the Dragon died in battle or killed each other, but for the most part became wild and none had as strong a will and a hand as Khamûl to attempt to rein them in. They burned the military of Rhûn, attacked the Dwarves on their own and flew back to the Withered heath- Rhûn could avail of no dragon again.

Herumor was one of the few aware that the Dragon had indeed come as a 'gift' from a 'mysterious benefactor' who had also sent along a complementary ring- A Ring that never left Khamûl's hand since.

In the following years, Herumor was the chief instrument of Sauron in the east, becoming a great lord of Harad along with Fuinur his brother. He journeyed far and wide, roaming the Hither lands like none before. That vast continent had a south coast yet unexplored, but Herumor knew the North- the Haradwaith- better than any other.

He had negotiated for years, manipulating the kingdoms into Sauron's hands, waiting through the Third Age for his master's return.

Late in the Third Age, the Rhûnic King Súladân of the Rising Sun had attempted to unify Rhûn like Khamûl before him. A fanatic of Sauron, he was given the leverage to sit on the Jagged throne (the first king to do so) and led the easterlings in a campaign against the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills.

Through the ages, however, the Nár-Rîm had declined in number. Bereft of Dragons to boast of, many high Nár-Rîm lords and nobles took the titles of 'Lôke-Rîm', meaning 'Dragon-lords'. They bedecked their horses in armour cut in a similar manner to the aesthetic of Dragon-scales, and hoarded riches and wealth like the great worms themselves. By Khamûl's edict, a warrior of the Nár-Rîm was to renounce all material possessions and seek only honourable death in battle at the hands of a worthy foe- yet the Iron discipline had vanished over the years, allowing them to become lords and nobles in the first place.

Súladân had attempted to unify the tribes of Rhûn and the lords of the Nár-Rîm under Sauron's cause, yet he fell at the lonely mountain, at the hands of the very dwarves he wished to crush. A Crossbow-bolt through the eye and he fell from the Mûmak he had procured from Harad, dead.

The new queen, Lady Tindómiel, was… problematic, from Herumor's point of view. First of all, one would be hard pressed to find such an exemplar of goodness and virtue than the King's daughter. Secondly, one would also be hard-pressed to find another with such a profound hate of Sauron.

The former Dark Lord had been clever, and distrusted the Dragon-Knights who had come to hold most of the power in Rhûn, holding the King as a puppet. He had sent his own Black order of 'Temple-Inquisitors'- descendants of Black Núménoreans, who acted as priests of Melkor, bringing the teachings of the Dark Vala to the east as Sauron had in the far west.

It had been Herumor's duty to handle the affairs of the Black Templars, and he had been mostly successful. There was none of the corruption one could see in the 'Núménoreans' of Umbar (who served none save themselves), and all were fanatically loyal to the Dark Lord.

When one worshipped Morgoth, even without meaning to- there is nothing one could do to hold back the influence of shadow. The Dark Words of their own tongues enveloped the minds of these Templars and corrupted them ever further. At first, Herumor had easily made them spout Blasphemous oaths under pain of a very cruel death, yet he needed not threaten them anymore- in the end, all were bound in darkness.

Years of diplomatic labour by Herumor and a full age of intrigue meant that he could undermine the influence of the Dragon-Knights, expand the Temple of Melkor, turn most of the populace into slaves for the Temple-Inquisitors, and push the King into Sauron's grip. He had been especially careful with Súladân- watching over him from birth, acting as a foster father, imparting teachings… turning him into the fanatic he would be.

However, the same could not be said for Tindómiel. From birth, she hated him. She spent all her time after coming of age to try and reduce the influence of the Temple-Inquisitors, and had almost managed to eradicate them.

At the end of the Third Age, she had even taken an elvish name, given to her by the Wizard-lord Rómestámo, who governed Dorwinion and the surrounding provinces- Herumor's arch-rival.

Unbeknownst to the Dark Marshal of Sauron, Rómestámo was Pallando the Blue Istar, to whose destruction Herumor had dedicated a lot of his life. He had dealt with the other, Morinehtar- oh, yes, he had walked right into his trap owing to his nature- and yet, his maiarin companion proved wiser and disappeared, coming later as he Wizard-lord of Dorwinion and stalling the Forces of Khand.

He was also a teacher to Tindómiel, who went to him in secret, and put her on this 'wretched' path of light.

She would be coming today, in all her 'radiant' beauty, as was told (Herumor would rather prefer her bloodied gruesomely on the ground, thoroughly dead), and would try to thwart all his plans.

He turned his attention to the Nár-Rîm- the true warriors of that order, who held to the old code, were few and had been in decline. However, the new Battlemaster, Lord Ar-Murazor, was a champion of the old ways, and held his disciples to the same iron discipline he himself practiced.

The Lord Battlemaster was getting on in years, Herumor knew, but he still looked and seemed ageless. He was not the easiest of people to negotiate with, as he always held to his word and stood firm. He also did not owe his loyalty to Sauron, and neither to Khamûl- but to Rhûn and the Nár-Rîm. Ironic, that he should do all within his power to protect and foster the order, while caring nothing for its Nazgûl lord.

He was also a fearsome fighter, and as he aged, he got ever better from constant training and refining. Herumor with all of his four thousand years of practice considered Murazor his equal in skill, and the Battlemaster was the more powerful of the two. He had also specialised and perfected his form of fighting, while Herumor had never quite focused on his martial prowess, relying instead on strategy and diplomacy. For Herumor, fighting was a means to an end- on the other hand, it was the Battlemaster's very life- there could be no argument as to who would win a duel.

If Murazor was to join Tindómiel, if he judged it for the good of Rhûn, then Herumor would accomplish nothing.

Lord Dúrburz, the Black Templar, was perhaps to be Herumor's closest ally- he was the leader of the Temple-Inquisitors. So long bound had he been by the corruption of Morgoth that he would answer Herumor's call, and be obliged to grant his every request. However, Dúrburz's influence was fading.

The High Priest Ghâshthrak was Dúrburz's prodigy, and led the sacrifices and offerings to Melkor. He could be a potential ally, but owed his loyalty to none and would be perfectly happy to stab his master in the back. Tindómiel held him in contempt- but not everyone did.

Finally, Herumor turned his attention to the last noteworthy member of the Council of the East- the Lord of the Corsairs of Umbar.

Until the Third Age, Umbar had been a haven of corruption, with the so-called 'Black Núménorean' aristocracy based there falling to ever lower depths. Herumor had pleaded his master for a chance o rein them in line, and was given it- oh, how he had enjoyed executing the false traitors who would insult Núménor's name- but even he could not rout out the seeds of slacking and ulterior motives.

The then-Captain of the Corsairs, Lord Gimilkhâd, had been one of the Black Núménoreans. His second-in-command, Captain Kharlíl, was given charge of the corsair fleet at Gondor, set to attack the Noble Defenders of Minas Tirith at the back. The Captain was slain along with all his men by the Dead of Dunharrow, who were commanded to destroy the Corsair Fleet by Aragorn.

Gimilkhâd had assembled what bodyguard he could, and cut a hasty retreat unto Umbar. There he lived out the Third Age, and when the Dawn of the Fourth came, he perished finally in battle, resisting the reclamation of Pelargir by Gondor.

The remaining Corsairs and what was left of the 'Ar-Adûnaîm'- the 'King's Men' of Umbar, descendants of the Black Núménoreans, were forced to flee Umbar to escape trial due to years of corruption and evil in their rule over the land. They had come to east Rhûn by means of the crossing of the river Harnen.

They had fled far into the east, coming at last to the east coast of Rhûn- the shattered coast, as it was known, after the sundering of Cuiviénen and the breaking of the Sea of Helcar, which turned into a great bay due to the shattering might of the Powers during their battle in the First Age- destroying the birth-land of the elves and submerging most of Hildórien.

That brought Herumor's attention to the current lord of the Corsairs. An enigmatic figure, he was known only by one name-The Fell-hearted one. Lord Fellheart.

By no other name was the Corsair-lord known. He wore a dread helm of Galvorn- the star-metal of Eöl, and by what miracle he had managed to acquire it, Herumor knew not. He had taken charge of the Corsair Fleet, rallied its remnants, and had managed to secure such a sound, stealthy retreat, that Gondor with all its naval might could not defeat them.

Herumor had heard tell of the 'Dread Knight' who came leading armies of turncoats onto a battlefield, suddenly aiding a side or another as it suited his interest- a figure in the fables of old who had lingered since the Second Age. Herumor had never seen the Dread-Lord, but was quite sure that he was behind one of his defeats at Rhûn.

Sauron's legions had been dealt a heavy loss that day, and Herumor remembered- A Black-Masked figure with robes clasped in sea-gold, rising to inspire fear in his troops, as his front-line troops later reported.

He had a lingering suspicion that this Black-masked marauder had the same Galvorn helm as Lord Fellheart- perhaps it was a family heirloom? Perhaps Fellheart had somehow managed to acquire it?

All Herumor did now is that this last member of the Council of Thirteen was the one he should treat with the most caution.

He looked, therefore, at the Dwarf-runes that sealed the mines, and spoke the words:

" **I am Herumor, Dark Marshal of Lord Sauron the Great. I am come to invoke the Dark Council, and to bring to decision the next move of the East. By the master's eternal majesty, thou shalt let me pass!"**

 _No Answer._

Herumor was immensely frustrated. The ears of the Nár-Rîm Guards could hear anything. They were as sharp as elven ears, due to years of discipline and training.

" **Dost thou not hear me? By the almighty rising lord, thou shalt let me pass!"**

Ringlach growled from within the cave she was hidden in. Herumor made a soothing, low growl to calm her down.

He advanced forward, and placed his hand upon the stone. He muttered several passwords, in Black Speech, then Rhûnic, then even what little of Khuzdûl he had learned from a dwarf whose life he had saved (and who he killed later).

The Doors did not open.

He gnashed his teeth, and hazarded some sorcery. The mind of the Guard was too far away to reach- perhaps there was no guard- and he tried the iron pulley which controlled the mechanism to open the door. He willed it to slide to the left, just a little.

The Runes of the Door glowed, and Herumor let loose a hoarse shout of pain. Cursed Dwarven Wards! They had repelled his sorcery.

They were trapped.

 _Unless…_

Herumor undid the strap at his back, and down fell the large, spiked mace. He scoured the door for a spot, a single spot, which was not Dwarf-made.

 _Ah, the Dragon's insignia- the one design Rh_ _û_ _n had added to the door._

The Mace shone with an unearthly light, surprising Herumor- yet it only served to further his resolve.

He would get in, no matter what- Morgoth could have his way with their architecture.

A Textbook-swing, and BLAM.

 **A/N:**

 **I am not particularly good at writing about culture (battle and duels is where I thrive), but I wanted to rather badly. There are far too few stories with Rh** **û** **nic or Haradric culture, and I would be glad if you bear with me.**

 **For some reason, I willed it that the history of Rh** **û** **n be based entirely on Dragons. They worship dragons, revere dragons, and some, it seems, want to be dragons.**

 **Gibshîn-magalyul-** **(Neo-Khuzdul by the Dwarrow Scholar): Forgotten Treasury**

 **K** **â** **n M** **û** **l-D** **ú** **r** **š** **un** **û** **r-** **(Rhunic): Kham** **û** **l the Glorious**

 **N** **á** **r-R** **î** **m** **(Rhunic, adapted from Quenya): Flame-lords**

 **Indûr of Harad:** **A Nazgûl**

 **Arkhâsh of Khand:** **A Nazgûl**

 **S** **ú** **lad** **â** **n** **(Rhunic): Lord of the Land of the Rising Sun**

 **Tind** **ó** **miel** **(Quenya): Child of Twilight (also the name of Elros Tar-Minyatur's daughter)**

 **Morinehtar (Quenya)-** **Alatar**

 **Ar-Murazor (Rhunic):** **Dread Reaper**

 **Battlemaster:** **Lord of the N** **ar-Rim**

 **Lôke-Rim (Rhunic)-** **Dragon-Knights/ Dragon-Lords**

 **D** **ú** **rburz (Black Speech):** **Dark Master**

 **Gh** **â** **shthrak (Black Speech):** **Flame-bringer**

 **Gimilkhad is a Numenorean name whereas Kharlil is an Umbarin one.**

 **Pelargir- The Havens of Umbar**

 **The 'Fell-hearted one' or 'Fellheart' as I have labelled him, will eventually become quite a character.**

 **Sorry that this one took so long- I have recently opened my eyes to one thing that has caused me to restructure my story- Middle-earth is not Arda's only relevant continent…**

 **And besides, I wish to bring back a** _ **much-beloved**_ **character, who happens to have a new invention…**


	20. THE TRUE LORD OF THE RINGS- Part 1

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **WARNING- This is where the story goes from very slightly AU to very very AU. In other terms, this is where the actual plot starts. It is recommended to re-read the prologue to make better sense of this one.**

 **Chapter 5: THE TRUE LORD OF THE RINGS Part 1- The Board is Set**

* * *

" _ **You know what I speak of"**_

" _ **Ash Nazg."**_

 _Ash Nazg._ The One Ring. Lord Mormanar had known that his master did not wish to leave the past unchanged- but a scheme of this degree of audacity- that was truly a risk to take.

He had known the first time around that his master had something in mind after he was asked to record the Battle of the Black Gate- that was soon after he rose from the Shadows.

He stood a little to the northwest of Carn Dûm, the Iron Capital. To the knowledge of very few, this was where Utumno of old had been built- and had fallen to the Valar. The underground fortress was lost, and only shadows and a dark abyss remained.

Over the years, after the Valar laid bare the pits and covered them with earth, the influence of the shadows of Morgoth ensured that the land rarely saw sunshine, and was forever cold. The hastily- covered Earth froze and solidified to ice from constant winter, and in the Third Age was naught but a cold, hard sheet of ice.

The ice here had an evil characteristic to it as well- for it was not white or a pretty, bluish hue- the ice was dark, and it never snowed. It always hailed, and all snow came from Blizzards and Gales. A lot of the ice near the south of Angmar was white- but not a pretty white. It was an unyielding, unchanging, rigid white, betraying the dangers of the land ahead.

The Witch-King's choice of Angmar was based not only on the fact that it was a great strategic location, but also on Sauron's hope that he could harness some of his master's power that was lost in Utumno.

The Sorceries of Angmar were fearsome in its day, but compared to not even a single sliver of the might of Utumno- but the Dark Lord did not wish to reach Utumno's might. He wished to further it- to do better than Melkor.

Currently, all was a desolate wasteland of the same, dark snow, with nothing to be seen in sight except for the famous Iron Spires of Carn Dûm.

Mormanar was come to a completely deserted spot, devoid of all but that Dark Ice, which seemed to be completely black here, without exception. He waited.

* * *

 _ **In Valinor**_

A workshop of the most beautiful tapestries in Arda. Intricate designs of beauty beyond words decorated every wall. If one was not quite awestruck enough to look properly, one could recognise the faces of the most famous figures of Arda's history- Fëanor, for example, was featured in great prominence, a look of focused rage on his face. His brother stood out, a figure of majesty, holding Ringil in a high guard, standing in defiance to a Grond-wielding Morgoth covered in shadows.

Every expression on every face was perfectly accurate. Beauty was represented for beauty and horror for horror, but nothing was _plain._

A cloaked figure with a _perfectly innocent,_ shining face was imparting words of 'wisdom' to an elven smith, the same cloaked figure, this time with a gold circlet, whispering surreptitiously into the ear of a King on a peacock-throne. The same figure, this time wearing an expression of diabolic triumph, holding up a small, golden ring.

A Dark Figure in armour, not quite as menacing as Morgoth before him, advanced on two Kings who had come to defy him.

The two Kings lay slain, but the Dark figure was utterly spent and defeated. The Son of the Tall King of Men walked forth with a shard of his father's sword, intent on the hand of the reclining dark figure…

And then the most recent tapestries began. A war that shook the world. A war of elves, dwarves and men- and hobbits. Four hobbits, with smiling faces, in a company of nine- at the journey's start in elvendom.

A battered but strong old fortress holding out against a tide of black, armoured monsters. A white city that stood firm against a storm of evil. A hopeless battle fought to gain time in front of two menacing Black Gates…

A small tapestry of a hobbit dangling the ring by a chain over the fiery lava of Orodruin. A large one of the hobbit fighting a creature who had once been of the stock of his kin.

The creature had one, holding the ring aloft. The precarious balance his foot made with the overhanging rock was noted.

The creature falling down into the river of fire, holding the ring aloft, his mouth wide open to say two words that had become his life's aim. A veritably tiny tapestry, of the ring resting on the lava- before melting into nothingness.

These were only a few of the tapestries made by Vairë, the weaver, spouse of Mandos. Her 'workshop' was limited, but its walls seemed limitless- reaching ever farther as one walked along them. There was an infinite amount of the same, beautiful tapestries, stretching along on boundless walls.

The Halls of Mandos were a most confusing construction, with various facets defying the laws of reality. It was a testament to the combined might and beauty of the songs of the Doomsman and the Weaver, who had sung this place of living stone into existence.

For its sheer outstanding, reality-defying qualities, this was indubitably the most 'interesting' place in Aman.

Over here was audible a mighty song- the mightiest of its kind. No words were present in this song, no dialect- it was pure thought, complete within itself.

Only Ainur would recognise that this was not in reality a song, but part echo- an echo of the Ainulindalë.

It was the same, yet different. It was echoed from the Timeless halls- yet wholly new. The might of Vairë had created a conduit to the Halls, so that she could hear all that ever happened on Arda.

On the sides and peripheries sat the Maiar of the weaver, who were using a golden, seemingly insubstantial fluid thread to weave the minor histories of Arda. Some did not even weave the histories- they weaved pictures, or simply gave shape to their own thoughts. The music resounded within every mind, and all were free to interpret it as they should.

They could listen to some strains of music or others- but they could not listen to all of it. Only one could.

She sat on an unadorned throne in the middle of the workshop, wrapped in her great thought. The golden, fluid thread formed a cocoon around the Valië as she worked. A Loom, given substance from the same, pure thought, rested on her lap.

Her eyes were closed, and her mind perceived every single theme of the Great Music, She silently sent mental commands to her maiar to record certain events of special importance. All of what would directly impact Arda, she wove herself.

And the Dark Lord waited.

He waited, as a great shadow, daring not to come any closer lest the Weaver's light dispel his concealing cloak. Another advantage of Morgoth's power- he could now control _all_ darkness within the world, and did not need to exert his will over every shadow- they obeyed his command at the slightest whim.

He recalled his conversation with his servant, the Death-master.

* * *

 _ **In Memory**_

" _ **Vair**_ _ **ë**_ _ **does not control the history of Arda, but she does not merely record it either. It is more a matter of give and take. She does not work of her own will, for she cannot see all as I and the Doomsman can- her hand is guided by the song. The great song. If any event passes, she will record it- but that also means that for an event to have passed, she must have recorded it.**_

 _ **Her tapestries are said to be impossible to change for any hand save her own- yet that I can get around. I believe that she has an absolute trust in her maiar- indeed, I have seen evidence of it- and they can, perhaps, be used for this purpose."**_

" _From this it follows, I expect, that by changing or erasing an event in her tapestries, it is possible to remove that event from history- is it not, master?"_ Mormanar had said. For all his analytic prowess, he had trouble understanding some rather abstract ideas, such as most Ainurin processes.

" _ **Ah, Mormanar. As I said, it is a matter of give and take- an event cannot have passed without her recording it, but she cannot record it if it did not pass in the first place.**_

 _ **When Ath**_ _ **á**_ _ **raphel**_ _ **û**_ _ **n was not yet made, the Valar fought countless battles against Du**_ _ **š**_ _ **am**_ _ **â**_ _ **n**_ _ **û**_ _ **dhaz and his maiar amidst the stars. It was then that the fabric of the firmament of E**_ _ **ä**_ _ **was ascertained by A**_ _ **ȝû**_ _ **l**_ _ **ê**_ _ **z and Ull**_ _ **û**_ _ **b**_ _ **ô**_ _ **z, so that by their song, they could manipulate it.**_

 _ **Nine dimensions they found- four macro-dimensions, of matters physical, and five micro-dimensions of those specific. Yet it was always in Lord M**_ _ **â**_ _ **nawen**_ _ **û**_ _ **z's mind that Eru had willed ten, and that the tenth was yet to be found.**_

 _ **And then he found it- N**_ _ **á**_ _ **rom**_ _ **ô**_ _ **z, who is now known as the Doomsman, found the tenth. It is a dimension which is not present- it is one of potential. He could see the past and the future of Arda playing out before him- but while he was involved in this tenth dimension, he could not affect any other.**_

 _ **It is in this dimension of prophecy that I expect you to be sent to, and it is there that the battle will play out. You must do a PERFECT job- else all is lost. Disappoint me not, 'Death-master'."**_

" _I can promise you, master, that your enemies will lie dead and mastered by the end."_

* * *

 ** _In Mandos_**

An explosion of chaotic might shook the Halls of Waiting. The repentant fëar were expelled with pure, unleashed might. The fëar with lesser wills were _dissipated-_ shattered into pieces and blown in every direction. The ones with great wills, like the Elf-lords of old, came to know what it was to experience pain in death.

A psychic scream shook the halls. It was night, meaning that Varda had returned to Taniquetil to regulate the movements of the stars, leaving Nienna in charge of the halls. A swift beam of thought was sent by the Valië to the one she regarded her sister- an urgent plea for help.

Vairë chose not to leave her workhop- that would take time. She let part of her consciousness drift out of her fána, and travel to the halls of her spouse to sort out the matter.

And then, he struck.

A tune of beautiful music thrust forth from the Dark Lord's very fëa, intermingling with the 'echo' of the great song and beguiling those under its influence. This was only possible for one with great power in the impersonal realm, and with a great understanding of _all_ themes of the Ainulindalë- and after his decimation of Morgoth, the Dark Lord could lay claim to both.

Slowly, he stepped forth from the shadows, a majestic, cloaked figure wearing flowing robes of black with a silver trim. A little spell inducing a soporific torpor set awash the minds of the Maiar around th weaver.

Vairë herself was set as if in a trance, for part of her consciousness was roaming the impersonal, looking for stray fëar. She could sense nothing untoward about this new intruder- it was a very familiar presence to her, and indeed a welcome one. The Dark Lord walked forth, with his face and features so similar to those of Námo, Vairë's spouse… and placed a hand on her cheek.

The Valië's lips fluttered up in a placid little smile at the new presence.

" _Sleep, my dear"_ commanded the Dark Lord, and she appeared to obey. Her consciousness, by the power of the Dark Lord, could sense nothing untoward. Her eyes slid shut, and the Dark Lord took one of her palms, and touched it to the loom on her lap. His will performed a two-pronged attack- that of gently coercing Vairë's hand to action, and slamming brutally into the golden, ethereal thread of the tapestry, 'blotting' and 'obscuring' it. Vairë reclined in a peaceful rest- she would wake soon. The Dark Lord summoned the shadows to cloak him once more- all was now left to Mormanar.

* * *

 _ **In Angmar**_

Mormanar, Shadow of Doom, Lord of the Night, ended his grim vigil as the fabric of reality was torn in front of him. He could see Black towers set like teeth against gums of barren land. The Black Gate of Mordor had opened before him.

The power of Doom was to be entirely and irrevocably his. He commanded all Darkness- but now he would be able to exert direct control over the shadows.

In his steeled mind flowed every fact and figure of the Battle that decided Middle-earth's fate. Every precise detail was recorded.

Not a single change was to be made, if it could be helped. All had to rely on clockwork. He could not rely on shadows, as they exerted no influence on this 'dimension'.

 _The Fell Kingdom must Rise._

With these thoughts, and a cold, unyielding expression of absolute decisiveness, the Death-master took two steps and was gone.

"Blimey, what took that feller so long? Been waitin' for 'im ter be gone an age now, I think. Well, yer foinally get what yer wanted, Hellërúcir- FREEDOM! Heh hah hah hah hah haaaah!"

The Storms that ensued were simply too impossible to be called 'ominous'- 'ridiculous' was perhaps the better adjective. Of course, the Dark Lord would discover the massive cracks in the ice, but he could simply say he had been polishing up on his skills.

* * *

 **A/N: A Thank-you to all who reviewed. Sadly, I shall not be able to write much (if at all) in the next month. Circumstances have evolved in such a manner that my time at home will be severely limited.**

 **Hence, I have tried to lengthen and split up a few chapters to facilitate a satisfactory number of chapters put out before a month-long hiatus.**

 **Naromoz- Námo/Mandos**

 **I have used circonflexes for the Valarin, since I am currently using an Apple Computer and can find no way to put the straight bar.**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing.**


	21. THE TRUE LORD OF THE RINGS- Part 2

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

* * *

 **WARNING- This is where the story goes from very slightly AU to very very AU. In other terms, this is where the actual plot starts. It is recommended to re-read the prologue to make better sense of this one.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: THE TRUE LORD OF THE RINGS Part 2- The Shadow of Doom**

 _The Battle of the Black Gate was in full flow._

 _Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was fighting his hardest, And_ _ú_ _ril clashing against the vicious dark blades of the orcs. He fought not to gain victory, but to survive- to give time enough to Frodo for him to destroy the ring._

 _No shadows gathered. There was no silent watcher to see him._

Lord Mormanar Death-master stepped out from the rift in reality's firmament and had to immediately seek cover under the shadow of the Ered Lithui.

All the facts played out in his mind. He saw Aragorn kill six orcs in one swing, with the shout 'ELENDIL!'

He saw the Nazgûl wreaking havoc on the Army of the West with their fell beasts. He saw Legolas Thranduilion stringing his father's enchanted arrows to fell the beasts.

He saw Gimli, son of Glóin, unleash a wake of death on his foes so that his elven friend could successfully climb a tower and shoot.

He took care to blend in with the shadows. With his black cloak obscuring his armour, he walked silently across- one step at a time.

He knew Sauron's eye could catch him out in the open in an instant- the maia could not penetrate the Dark Lord's shadow that his cloak was made of, but the dark armour underneath it, if exposed, would immediately be caught out.

Mormanar's Iron Helm of those cruel, twisted spikes was also easily discernible, and he hence walked with his head bent.

He looked forward, and saw a small regiment of very tall, fearsome troops in Dark Armour- they were the guard of the Lord of Barad-dûr, he realised. They were all clad in black armour somewhat similar in appearance to his, and also wore iron helms on their heads. They carried dark maces which could slaughter foes in one hit.

As they walked, slowly, to join the fray, Mormanar felt that he would be better camouflaged among them.

He saw a passing orc running along- in the haste of its malice, paying no heed to the Dark figure before it. A fortuitous chance.

In one movement, Mormanar stepped out of the shadows, and with a clean swing, cut the orc's head straight off. _Good._ He needed to test whether he could kill quite as efficiently or not.

He saw Sauron's attention on the Istar in front of him. Gandalf was instrumental in rallying Aragorn's men, and giving them strength to fight. He saw the Black Guards walking forth, and on instinct chose to join them.

He thrust the entirety of his will onto his iron helm, bending the shadowy iron of the Dark Lord's creation to a crude, angular imitation of the Eye of Sauron, which decorated the banner of every orc he could see.

It would be seen as humiliating, since he was forced to change the testament to the Dark Lord's terrible might to this image used by Sauron to inspire fear, but Mormanar cared not- it was _practical._

The Black Guards were almost at his side, and he stepped once again out of the shadows to fall into step beside them.

He could not kill them with the sword, or Sauron would see. He could, however, snuff out whatever of the flame imperishable they had within them.

They were grim-faced, wearing no mask on their faces, and said not a word to the Doom-bringer. Sauron would notice that there was another member to this group, and so Mormanar silently, surreptitiously raised his hand and closed his gauntleted fist.

The Black Guard immediately adjacent to him fell, Mormanar catching his mace before it fell with him. With unmatchable efficiency, he ignited his black blade under the shadow of the felled Guard's cloak and plunged the tip of the Ainunarcar- just the tip- into the side of his head.

The other guards immediately turned around. Mormanar could not speak to them, or else they would know his presence- but he had to.

" _Eldarin Nardubawib."_ Said he, in the most thin, rasping voice he could. He could control how much air entered and exited his mask, and hence managed to hide the deep, metallic resonance.

The Black Guards seemed out understand. Mormanar made gestures to the southeast and the southwest- the 'arrow' could have come from any direction. Leaving no matter to chance, one of the Black Guards moved southeast, whereas Mormanar himself went southwest- in Mount Doom's direction. The rest walked as purposefully as they ever did- they had nothing on their mind but their foes' blood.

Mormanar glided forth, visibly lifted the dark mace and smashed… _something…_ in the way. He disappeared behind a dark cavern, so that Sauron could not see him.

All had to be done with complete caution and precision from here. He threw away the mace and ignited Ainunarcar, keeping in the shadow of the mountains around him. Taking his chosen road would take him to Barad-dûr, and he did not wish to near the Dark Tower and put himself in front of Sauron's will.

He did not have the time necessary to flank around the dark tower. The shadows in this 'dimension' of potential were rather… _illusive._ They were less potent, since this was not the Arda that Morgoth had tainted, but a representation- however, he had to make what use of them he could.

His dark will cut into every shadow around him, and one by one, the dark spirits had fallen to his dominance.

They did not afford quite as good concealment as they did on the real Arda, but it was adequate enough. He stopped walking, and glided with all haste, cutting apart all rock that would hinder him.

Nearing Barad-dûr, he took a sharp turn, making for Orodruin. He found every protruding rock and wall face that could conceal him on the road of the Gorgoroth.

This was no mere orc-road- it was Sauron's road. The main route of all traffic and transport in Mordor, linking Orodruin to the Dark Tower.

Orcs walked across it in haste- only the high-ranking ones were allowed to walk this road. Various nameless terrors like the Black Guards he had seen earlier made their way with all haste to the Dark Tower.

Mormanar silenced nearly all thoughts he had, summoning only the facts and figures to mind, making his darkness impossible to sense. He was partly lucky in the fact that he was not taken for an unusual character in Mordor, for the dim light and his general appearance gave him the air of one of the more fearsome servants of Sauron, and hence orcs dared not approach him whereas Sauron's other fearsome lieutenants did not bother to engage in interlocution with him- he must have 'had his orders'.

Finally, the Dark Mountain in sight, he abandoned the road and glided with haste over the shortest, straightest route possible towards its rivers of fire.

Many broad, arched gates formed of the igneous, magmatic rock of the mountain loomed before him, but he cared not and silently but hurriedly glided on.

He took the liberty of arraying his concealing shadows around himself, revealing his dread visage and ensuring that he was given an ever-wider berth. Sauron's notice was elsewhere.

Soon, the road in front of him was deserted. Mormanar took a calculated risk and abandoned all caution, dissolving his form into a shadow of darkness.

Immediately, Sauron's will was alerted to a change in the circumstances. There was something… _different._ A shadow different to all the other present shadows.

Mormanar kept his calm, deceiving Sauron into thinking him as static and unliving as possible, and by sheer strength of will forced the shadows of his being to gather again, this time on the very slope of Orodruin. He began the climb.

Ironclad feet made a great clatter against the volcanic rock, no matter how precise and calculated his steps, and had he not kept himself in a state of constant, forced calm (a nigh-emotionless nature greatly helped in this endeavour) and utter silence, he would have cursed harshly.

Mormanar found Mount Doom completely unguarded. He kept as close to the rock as possible, cutting a path through it with Ainunarcar when necessary.

He found the same emaciated, broken creature racing forth in furious haste towards the mouth of the opening into the volcano.

Mormanar had to be quick- and precise.

With a small burst of power had not initially wished to expend, he once again dissolved his form and with the might of his will, forced himself to re-form within reach of the creature.

The creature- Gollum- paused to pick up a large rock, and this gave the Death-master time.

"We will smash the fat hobbit on his headses, yesss, and then we will get you! We will take you from the hand of 'massster' who betrayed us. _Gollum, Gollum!_ Now, we takes you forever, my precious!" Gollum rasped.

"I think not." said Mormanar, causing Gollum to turn around- tilting his head at just the correct angle for the Doombringer to ignite Ainunarcar with lightning speed and viciously hack it off with its scythe's edge.

"Preciouu-s-s…" the scream on his lips was halted and produced no sound, as Mormanar walked forth, leaving the wretched little corpse behind.

In front of him stood the two hobbits he recognised. Now, where exactly had Gollum hit the former…

"Master!" cried Sam.

Then Frodo in front of him stirred and spoke with a clear voice, indeed a voice clearer and more powerful than Sam had ever heard him use, and it rose above the throb and turmoil of Mount Doom, ringing in the roof and walls.

"I have come", he said, "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The ring is mine- no! N-no! NO! Sam, please..."

Something very hard had struck Sam on the back of his head. The hobbit lay dazed on the ground, not quite aware of what had happened, that he didn't see Mormanar unleashing the full extent of his tyrannous might against his beloved Mr Frodo.

Frodo decided that his only chance was to put on the ring…

" **There is no escape."** A violent blast of some terrible, dark power, and Frodo was lifted, against his will, into his foe's iron grip. The Gauntleted hand wound around his neck, but Mormanar did not have time to choke- he lifted his mask, just an inch, and Frodo could see the terrible light of his doom and a thousand others in his baleful, green 'eyes'. The already-weakened resistance of the hobbit crumbled, and he fell unconscious to the ground.

Mormanar could see the ring beyond him- slipping slowly but surely off the rock of Sauron's forge.

He had no time to collect it in his hand- and therefore sent tendrils of shadow to collect the Dark Lord's prize… and the ring fell.

Of course! Of course it resisted the shadows… Down, Down, down it fell…

* * *

The Death-master struck with the most precise strike he would ever make.

There it was, the little golden ring, hanging precariously from the scythe-tip of his sword.

Mormanar himself was hanging off the ledge of Sauron's black forge, keeping a hold on the rock with one gauntleted, iron hand. His shadows had slowed the ring for perhaps one second or two, allowing him to ignite his blade, change its shape slightly by correctly arranging its fluid blade, jump, thrust one iron hand out to stay his fall, and to utilise the most precise thrust he had ever made to insert the Ainunarcar's thin tip into the ring.

The Shadow had triumphed. The Dark Lord had triumphed. Sauron was aware that… _something…_ had happened, and shot a tentative gaze at the mountain. A small part of his will was taken away from the battle and observed the happenings in Mount Doom…

Mormanar clawed and thrust his way up the ledge into Sauron's forge, using only one hand.

With an expert movement, he swung the Ainunarcar up, reversed grip midair with the ring still precariously hanging on its tip, and thrust it into the ground.

He pulled his way back up by virtue of the sunken tips of his fingers and Ainunarcar, until he finally beheld Sauron's forge.

Sauron's will, on the other hand, found a beguiling force to contend with. The shadows twisted around the mountain in such a way as to deceive him of what was occurring inside… something was happening… his ring!

Immediately, he thrust the entirety of his will to Mount Doom, and saw _… nothing._ A much greater will than his was barring his sight.

The Dark Lord himself was using all his power in that realm to block Sauron's sight at any cost.

Mormanar took one look at the ring, and he knew what he must do.

" **Master, I need your strength!"** he roared, for once and perhaps the only time in eternity, using very desperate tones.

" _ **And you shall have it!"**_ communicated the Dark Lord, using an impossible control over his own mind to somehow communicate into the past and not confuse it for the present.

The Doombringer felt a dark surge of terrible power into his being, and he balanced the ring on his iron palm. He focused the entirety of his will on one thing, and one thing alone.

 _The Fell Kingdom must Rise. Arda must be conquered to rise anew, stronger than before. In the Dark Lord's name I strike this blow- for his great cause I bring this doom._

A black flame, completely black and cold, burst from his right palm. This was impossible- his palm of metal held the black flame and was unscathed by it- unscathed by the every thing that could annihilate Ainur.

A surge of his and his master's wills combined, and the black flame shot forth in a jet of severing force at the ring balanced on his left palm.

Sauron felt pain like he had felt only twice before- during the Downfall of Núménor in the Second Age and his forging of the ring before it. His bond with his very fëa was being violently torn apart.

He had little time. The ring, which was once hot on his palm, now lay cold. The letters of fire had lost their hue but did not fade- remaining etched on the ring as a cruel testament to its former might.

At that moment, the entirety of the Dark Lord's tremendous will was forced on Sauron, intent on forcing his tower to collapse and his form to capitulate. Sauron did what he had always done… he fought… but this fight could not be won.

Mormanar saw the fell beasts of the Nazgûl and an eagle of Manwë flying with all speed to the mountain. Before him, he saw the same rift in Eä's firmament- the Dark Lord's summons.

His master would deal with the hobbits' memories. To make _absolutely sure_ that no events would change for the worse, he put the tip of Ainunarcar to Frodo's ring-finger and cut the top of it off.

In Black Triumph, he took two steps and was gone.

Sauron's resistance crumbled against the will of the Dark Lord. Barad-dûr's foundations were deprived of the bonds of sorcery that held them together. Down, down fell the Dark Tower, and Orodruin erupted then, claiming the lives of the Nazgûl. The hobbits stirred, thinking all hope was lost, and found that the eagles of Manwë were coming. It was over.

" _Victory! We have Victory!"_ came Aragorn's shout, and all was over.

* * *

It was night. The Gardens of Lórien were as pristine and beautiful as ever, with little glow-worms illuminating the beautiful little butterflies that flew around.

Two figures in long, sweeping robes were walking slowly through the gardens, enjoying each toher's company. One wore intricate robes of a silver and white, and the other had majestic robes which had the same silver, but were black.

The two brothers were setting out for Mandos- Námo had finally healed enough and thrown off this illness over ten years, and was judged well enough to return to his halls.

"Ah, Námo, it appears the day has finally come when you can return to your duties."

"And not too soon. You and your insistence for ensuring a 'complete, holistic recovery' were a blasted nuisance to deal with. The next time I fall ill, if there will indeed be such a time, I will be sure to choose rather less unnecessarily thick-headed healers so that I may return to my halls the sooner."

The Vala of Dreams gave a soft laugh, and patted his brother on the shoulder.

"Ah, Námo, Námo. How am I to blame? I like having you here. Am I not allowed some time to spend with my dear, baby brother…"

"That is the last time, you cantankerous Ainu. Once more and thou mayest find my most terrible, dark doom upon thy head before thou canst utter 'Sorry'."

"Well, in my defence for calling you a little brother, you most certainly act like one." said Irmo innocently, making his brother gnash his teeth.

"And there we have an example. Throwing tantrums when the bitter truth is revealed…"

"That is it! The next time thou dost find the nerve to pronounce me 'baby brother', thy gardens will be infiltrated by the spirit of Curufinwë Fëanáro- in the form of a hot-headed child. Estë will be absent and thou wilt…"

"Stay thy tongue, my dear friend. As Elder King, I do not grant thee permission to pronounce such a terrible doom upon thy brother."

"Lord Manwë. What an…"

"How many times have I told you, my children, to not bow? What have you taken me for- some Iron Disciplinarian who exists only to mete out punishment should ' _absolute discipline'_ not be maintained?" said Manwë, shaking his head and sighing.

The two younger Valar immediately snapped out of their bow.

"Sorry, my…"

"You were going to say both 'sorry', and 'my lord'! Now that- that is completely unforgivable! Do you never seem to leave behind such bad habits? I am not your lord- I am your brother- and I do not need or accept apologies." said the Elder King, looking exasperated.

"We will keep that in mind… your most feathery high-in-the-sky-ness." said Námo with his tongue firmly in his cheek, and Manwë sighed.

"Again, Námo? Again with the wings…" said he, seeming to finally take notice of his majestic white wings which had apparently become an object of ridicule among the two- but he started walking behind them and made them evaporate into thin air when he thought they weren't looking.

"I did not expect to see you here, my l… brother. Do no kingly duties beckon you upon your seat in Ilmarin?" said Irmo.

"Not quite. I always have some duty or another, but I am sure Eönwë can put everything in order. This takes precedence…"

"Walking with us takes precedence over the – ahem – 'kingly duties' Varda may or may not expect you to exact with her by your side? I must congratulate you, for her lips seem fuller- more, er- _ripe-_ for yours to claim in a worthy…" said Námo.

"That is enough, the both of you!"

Both Valar fell silent. Manwë could be quite the 'iron disciplinarian' whenever he so wished.

"Perhaps you are in a mood of good humour today, Námo? A fine story it will make, of how the Doomsman of the Valar, with his majestic, unnerving, stoic aura annoys his King until he wished he was anywhere but in Valinor? For your information, Varda _never_ expects me to exact such 'kingly duties'- she is stoic to the point of me wishing she asked for a little kiss more often. Perhaps the thought of granting the 'favour of a judge' to your dear Vairë's lips is turning your mood to such an unbecoming direction?"

"Come out with it, Námo. She must be all alone in that workshop of hers…" said Irmo, before he lost the battle and loosed a laugh in his most melodious voice.

Manwë released a chuckle or two- there were very few occasions when he actually laughed in earnest.

Námo's face turned from red to white and he stumbled down, coughing.

"Námo? NÁMO!"

Both Valar bent down to the Doomsman, who started gasping for breath as if starved of it.

He looked directly into Manwë's electric-blue eyes, and said silently: "A doom is there to p-pass- Grant m-me leave, my-my lord so… so that I may- cough- speak it."

"I grant you leave, but in haste! I sense your fëa in torment, Námo."

Trembling, he rose, an expression of placid calm coming to his face, before uttering:

* * *

" _ **Darkness rises once again.**_

 _ **By the Lord of the Dark, in this age, Fourth and Last-**_

 _ **And by the hand of the Death-master, his servant, who struck Arda's past.**_

 _ **A great sorrow of old times returns- commanding the forces of swift death in the skies.**_

 _ **The Void returns to haunt us- a force that will lengthen the night-**_

 _ **A shadowed flame, a darkened heart, a risen demon of might…**_

 _ **A cold, silent land they take,**_

 _ **In unleashing darkness, their foes they break.**_

 _ **A challenge rises, from doom, not rage -**_

 _ **The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age."**_

* * *

Having thus pronounced, the Doomsman staggered and took a few steps back, an expression of torment last seen ten years ago returning to his face.

" _Irmo, what shadow ails him? I thought it had been ended!"_

" _I could see nothing within him, my lord. It is an affair of the mind, most likely- dark visions that torment him. Perhaps…"_

" _Nay, Irmo. There is some evil at work. 'Struck at Arda's past'- Vair_ _ë_ _! Vair_ _ë_ **will** _know!"_

" _Can you take us to N_ _á_ _mo's halls, my King?"_

" _In a single instant."_

* * *

 **A/N: The title of this chapter is, indeed, the 'Shadow of Doom'. I could think of nothing more fitting.**

 **I realize I have just wiped out almost the entire significance of the story of '** _ **The Lord of the Rings'**_ **with regards to this little story. However, that tale did have a great many heroes to this, who will prove instrumental in stemming the onslaught of doom.**

 **As for N** **á** **mo seeming very much unlike the way I normally portray him- majestic and glorious to laughing behind Manw** **ë'** **s back- what can I say? I am fond of my Doomsman…**

 **As for his illness- it comes back to haunt him. Next chapter is a patented 'Valarin Investigation' of Vair** **ë** **'s halls…**

 **Unfortunately, this is the last time I will be able to update in quite some time- I do not foresee any updates within the next month. Please Review, for I will look forward to reading and replying to them when I get back.**


	22. The Council of Thirteen

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 6: The Council of Thirteen**

* * *

 _ **BLAM.**_

The Golden Dragon was knocked right off, leaving a huge dent in the door. Herumor was surprised at the mace's fell power, but questioned it not, and lined up another strike. He had lined up another swing, but something told him to go for a thrust. He doubted he had the power to thrust hard with a mace such as this, but a force beside his own seemed to propel his arm forward.

 _ **CRASH.**_

A gaping hole. Herumor lined up the final strike, which would be an almighty smash through the doorway, but never got the chance.

The door opened just as the mace started its initial swing, and the one who opened the door dodged the strike with ease- then with lightning speed, took out a double-bladed staff of sorts, and charged. Herumor tried to stop him, but the man struck, prompting a parry with his mace. That was the disadvantage- as one blade was parried, the force of it brought the other one up- on point to his neck.

The masked guard wore a cloak of red and black, over an armour of gold. A black dragon's insignia was imprinted at the middle of his cloak, and another insignia of gold was shown in the pendant of the chain that hung from his neck- this was one of the more skilled of the Nár-Rîm.

What the guard did not notice was that Herumor also had a poisoned and most cruelly-curved knife at his throat.

"If thou dost slay me, Náron, know that thou shalt die a far more painful death."

"We abide by the old code. Any death- peaceful or painful- is worth slaying an adversary of Rhûn, and that would be thee, Lord Herumor, 'Dark Marshal' of the lackey of Morgoth."

Herumor lowered his knife, but the Náron did not lower his weapon. Herumor's mind, at this situation, was running furiously.

 _This must be one of the code-abiding N_ _á_ _r-R_ _î_ _m- Murazor must have declared me an enemy of Rh_ _û_ _n- Only Tind_ _ó_ _miel calls the master 'Lackey of Morgoth'… Curse them, they must have joined- This was never going to be easy anyway… Code-abiding? I could use the code to my advantage…_

"Stand down, my lord Náron, and let me pass. It is within thine ancient code to allow all who seek audience with thy lord to pass. Furthermore, as a lord of the Dark Council, I possess the right to invoke it at any time necessary, provided the acquiescence of mine esteemed colleagues. That I have, and can reproduce in manuscript…"

"Tarry, Lord Herumor! Thou art an enemy of Rhûn, and thou hast not the right to enter within the home of the Nár-Rîm. Times countless thou hast brought only evil counsel, and thou wouldst have led all of Rhûn to darkness. Besides, Queen Tindómiel hath pronounced that thou shalt be barred from entry into Rhûn."

"And here thou lackest understanding of thine own code. Thou canst not expel a member of the Dark Council without first a hearing in court, along with a vote in which the chosen council member's vote doth count for two. Thou dost forget that before I left, I was the lord and the leader of the Dark Council, as provided by the King Súladân, and 'Queen' Tindómiel hath no authority to counter it sans proper procedure. Hence, ye shall get no-where if thou dost not privilege me entry."

The Nárin Guard shook his head and pulled off his mask, showing a face startlingly familiar to Herumor.

"Salir?" the Black Lord asked in shock. Was this not the very child he had helped train? The little boy who used to climb onto his lap after learning how to lift a blade and stand in stance?

"Hail to thee, Herumor, but know that thou hast no meaning to me. Thou hast brought Rhûn to only darkness. By the code, thou mayest pass."

Herumor walked in, without a word. He knew not why he suddenly felt sad.

"Lord Herumor. I see our dear latecomer comes again." said a clear voice, which others less biased than Herumor would call 'melodious'.

There sat the object of his hate, at Súladân's place. She wore but a simple, plain dress, with pattern of the Rhûnic dragon at her breast. There was no train, nor no superfluous embroidery. A sparkling little smile lit her face, whose perfect features and olive hue many would swoon for. She had a little circlet on her head, almost elvish in make- surely given to her by that thrice-cursed Rómestámo. The Rhûnic crown of gold lay discarded at her feet.

She looked at him, and spoke in archaic tones to mock him:

"Pray come in haste, my lord, and spray us with thy chaff so that we may get rid of it the sooner."

Herumor gritted his teeth. A long meeting indeed.

* * *

"Fine, then. I will condescend to use the common Rhûnic tongue. Pray bear with me, for I have neither time nor the disposition to keep track of all changes to language." said Herumor.

"Slander not our tongue, Herumor. Forget not that 'twas the Nár-Rîm who held against your beloved Núménor." said a sharp, biting voice from Herumor's left.

Lord Ar-Murazor, Battlemaster of the Nár-Rîm, sat with his brows furrowed. Herumor was subjected to a thorough scrutiny.

They table they sat at was roughly triangular, with two 'heads' and a long 'hypotuenuse', so to speak. One 'head' was where the Battlemaster sat silent, on an iron throne- his back to a magnificent carving of Khamûl's drake out of the living stone, with a hearth in the place of its mouth. The other was reserved for the Monarch of Rhûn- and Tindómiel held that spot. Súladân had a gilded, golden seat (not a throne, for none was allowed a higher seat than the Nárin Battlemaster), yet Tindómiel had replaced it with a plain chair.

Herumor normally sat at the right hand of the King, but now was allotted a place on the other side of the table. Lord Dúrburz, head of the Cult of Melkor, moved over, and beckoned his apprentice the High Priest to pull Herumor's chair.

Ghâshthrak appeared to do so with some reluctance- had they still been under Sauron's rule, he would have been kissing Herumor's feet, and the Núménorean knew it.

Herumor walked forth and took his seat, and his old comrades came in to flank him. However, after a certain point, the Nár-Rîm guards blocked their entry.

"Abrazânîm, kan." said Herumor to his comrades, and they stopped, keeping a weary watch on the golden-armoured guards.

Herumor strode forth- disguising the infirmity in his knees with a slow, majestic gait, and, his cloak flapping over the chair he was given, sat down. He instantly regretted it.

A black helm of Galvorn was visible two seats to his right.

" _Fellheart."_ he muttered imperceptibly under his breath…

"Indeed. Based on a judgment of the way you pronounced my title with such revulsion, I take it that you are not quite pleased to see me. Whatever have I done to warrant it, may I ask? I have only successfully managed to save the Corsair fleet, have I not?" asked an oddly sophisticated voice from under the helm.

Herumor turned sharply. _Fellheart was not supposed to have heard that!_

"Sometimes I wonder, lord Fellheart, whether your uncanny abilities of hearing are merely a natural coincidence, or tied to a secret you keep. Ever the mysterious lord of distant lands, as you insist on being- naturally, I have no faith in your devotion to the Dark Lord. Those who oppose the Dark Lord oppose me." said Herumor, in a somewhat mild tone with veiled threat.

" _The Dark Lord?! Hah, Herumor, the Dark Lord is gone. He will never return- no aid is to come from him- or from keeping a sad faith in an obsolete, ancient devotion to him. I have faith in practicality, and my own strength in arms- not in some shadow blown away by the merest winds!"_ scoffed Fellheart- with a remarkably rational voice.

"This is preposterous! Lord Gorthaur the great has always been our lord and saviour. He is not gone- nay…" spoke Dúrburz loudly, when Tindómiel suddenly trounced him.

"And for once you are correct, O Deluded Lunatic of Unsound mind, for he is not merely gone- he has been utterly vanquished. _Finished. Blown away as a wisp of vapour- and good riddance."_

"I will not see the Dark Lord's name insulted thus! Pathetic foot-washer of an old loon who calls himself a 'wizard'!" roared the Black Templar, and rose immediately with ire in his face, when…

" **Stay, Dúrburz. If you dare lay offense to the Queen in the halls of those sworn to protect her, I will be forced to lay offense to skin of your throat."** said a deep voice- calm yet thunderous. The Battlemaster had risen in almost a microsecond, and had his hand on a curved knife housed in his armour. A splendid, golden armour he wore, and in the middle was a likeness of a Dragon's maw- the teeth being the tips of various cruel throwing-knives, with the hilts being the frills on its head.

The Lord of the Melkian Cult came to his senses, and sat down- his pride injured. Herumor had been careful enough to silence his rage. Tindómiel was clever- very clever.

"My friends, my brothers in arms and all those of this great nation I have sworn to serve; it is of the essence that…" Herumor began, but was not allowed to finish.

"Tarry again, Lord Herumor, for the Battlemaster is to start proceedings in any convention." said Ar-Murazor. Herumor was convinced that he had waited so that he could interrupt and admonish him.

"Ahem- Lords of Rhûn and Harad. My brothers of the Nár-Rîm. Queen Tindómiel of Rhûn, Lord-General Dákhnir of Khand, King Kharan of Harad- and Lord Fellheart of the Corsairs. We are assembled to discuss the matter of the fate of the east. Gondor's might stretches far and wide- The King Elessar is mightier than any force we can together assemble, and growing mightier still. I pray you- present your propositions. Start…"

"My brothers, it is of the essence that…"

" _Queen Tindómiel."_ said the Battlemaster, venom in his voice.

Herumor huffed. He should not have begun. He had noticed how Murazor had named every significant lord but him, Dúrburz, Ghâshthrak and two others in Sauron's service.

"With pleasure, lord battlemaster. Gondor, I see, has been called a rival. They are not rivals. They are our friends, and will, with hope, become our closest allies."

Herumor's servants made a crude joke about 'with pleasure', which none but Fellheart seemed to have heard. The corsair lord shifted his helm a little- Herumor was sure he was smiling.

"They do not seek to conquer us- they are good men. King Elessar, though I have not had the honour of meeting him, strikes me as a paragon of virtue, and quite unlike some here who have led us to ruin. Queen Arwen - whom I had an audience with by the courtesy of the ever-wise Lord Rómestámo of Dorwinion- I hope to allot him a high post in this council- I found to be wise and honourable. She is of the Eldar, and possesses all their wisdom and skill, along with a decisiveness that I am told is uncommon in the fair folk."

" _I had not dismissed the fact that she would fall deeply in love with the Queen rather than the King. Dirty, miserable wench…"_ said Lord Durrîb, one of Herumor's associates, to rather loud laughter. Murazor stood up, and with impeccable precision, threw a knife directly at a point on the seat right next to his neck. The knife struck the seat, and Durrîb was silenced. Fellheart was slowly shaking his head.

With a grace born of patience, Tindómiel smoothly continued: "Every moment I spent in her presence was a privilege. She expressed hopes that the East and the South could unite under an alliance, and I did not hesitate to promise this to the delightful queen- fairest of all who walk Middle-earth."

Ar-Murazor shot a glance at her, which she ignored. Adjectives were not needed, as was his belief- according to him, all had to be done quickly and with as little deliberation as possible.

"I, therefore, immediately signed a nonaggression pact and hope to ensure a trade agreement by the end of this meeting."

"And with whose authority…"

" **PREPOSTEROUS!"**

* * *

A precise strike. Herumor had beaten Murazor to it. The Battlemaster did not interrupt, as the Queen had indeed signed an agreement without the will of the council, and he had to, by the code, allow argument.

"My brothers of the east- this utterly contemptible _child_ will lead us to naught but doom! You let her lead you- why, I believe the only reason why anyone listens to her prattle is because they are too enamoured of her supposed beautiful figure! We may be men- but we will not let the petty cravings of the man's mind deter us- she must be removed! And before you interrupt me, Lord Murazor…"

The Battlemaster had indeed cleared his throat, but decided against interrupting. His face resumed resembling an expressionless mask of stone.

"This agreement, in the core, is flawed. _Trade?_ Gondor would make a vassal of you- of all of you! We would be colonised, not allied! We must stand- stand alone, as we ever have… yet there is one way. One way which, if you wish to hear, you will allot me time to speak of at the very end."

A perfect performance. Prudential arguments mixed with emotional appeal, and with the right emphasis and rage shown. Murazor sat in stony silence.

"Indeed, as Lord Herumor has shown us, we must…"

"Silence, Dúrburz! We do not wish a repetition of the same argument. Let the Queen counter it." Murazor said, and that was the end of it.

Tindómiel looked maddeningly unruffled, despite the numerous and somewhat vulgar aspersions cast upon her. And when she spoke, her voice was calmer and more melodious than ever before.

"I thank you, battlemaster, for allowing me to continue. I apologise for taking such arbitrary action, but I did it for the good of Rhûn, for I feared that this council, due to the Dogma of some, would not allow it. There are nothing but advantages- besides, this does not bind any other nation save Rhûn, for I am only Rhûn's Queen.

I may not have the authority to conduct my own nation without the approval of the council, but I ask you this, Lord Murazor- when strength is needed, strength I have shown in differing from the mass. I have helped Rhûn. I crave independence- we all do- will you not grant it? I ask this for the good of Rhûn."

The Battlemaster sat back, thinking. _This was for the good of Rhûn- yet he did not wish to give her independent authority over the land. It was his land. His country._

"As evidence, I present to you the voices of others in this council. Others wish independence, too. This council has been nothing but a legacy of Sauron- it has only ever taken the Dark Path. I do not wish to dissolve it- merely to lessen the grip of darkness. This is a council of deliberation and negotiation- not absolute decision. I have judged this best for the East."

"A Vote." said Murazor. "A vote. That is the only course we can follow- a vote."

They began, each choosing their side- full authority over their lands, or restriction by the council.

Herumor, Dúrburz, Durrîb and their other associate, Khornath of Yerra-dûr, voted against full authority- only because Khornath was the only one who had land to govern.

Ghâshthrak looked hesitant. He was shot with two glances- one from Tindómiel, uncaring and contemptuous- daring him to vote against. The second was from Dúrburz, his mentor. Although the Black Templar's pride was wounded, it did nothing to lessen his ire and command, and looked sternly- almost murderously- at his protégé.

Finally, having calculated that voting against would grant him a higher chance of keeping his head, the High Priest cast his vote.

Five.

Finally, Murazor cast his- it was against. Herumor was more than a tad surprised. There was a custom which would oblige the battlemaster to vote as he had done, but Herumor thought he would ignore it- but Murazor remained faithful to the old code, as he always had.

" _I did not expect such an advance, Lord Battlemaster."_

" _Try not to create unnecessary conversation, or I will not grant such a mercy."_

Herumor kept silent, waiting for the others. _Six._

Tindómiel raised her hand, followed by Dákhnir of Khand (who had long wished such a move), and all the others from various provinces near the Orocarni to the north and to the far east.

 _Five._

Kharan of Harad was normally a very sure man, and yet for the most of the meeting had kept to himself. For a long time, he had been shooting glances at Tindómiel- most of the council had. Herumor had thought them glances of longing- it seemed so, as he sighed once, then twice, and failed to give his vote. He wished some power to remain with the Council, being one of its most powerful members with the most land to govern- and for a fractious state such as Harad, full authority was not necessarily the best move.

And Tindómiel struck.

She rested her hand on the table, set her chin upon it, and looked down with a dejected expression, blinking quite a few times- in reality, she was fluttering her eyelashes at Kharan, whose will crumbled.

He voted for. _Six to Six._

Only Lord Fellheart was left. He sat silently, his expressions undetectable by virtue of the Galvorn helm. He was clearly enjoying himself. Tindómiel did not wish to extend an offer to him, for she knew him to be a dangerous opportunist. She did not wish to vilify Herumor's cause, as Fellheart would sense the advantages, and would probably choose to vote against her.

Herumor's thoughts went in the same direction- but he chose to gently, gradually vilify Tindómiel's cause.

"Lord Fellheart- I know that you need money. Desperately. Tindómiel would not allow it. You are noble- but you lead corsairs. Gondor does not like corsairs. If an alliance is to be had, Gondor will get free rein to hunt your ships down! They will burn them, and you will lose all power! See reason, O Fell-hearted one, and bring victory to the Darkness you belong to!"

"Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm. I have received various interesting propositions. Either proposal can have… curious results, indeed. Should I, or Should I not?" said the Corsair-lord in his sophisticated voice, given a slight metallic tone by the Galvorn, but barely discernible.

"However, I do indeed feel that this is a little unfair. Lord Murazor votes against Lady Tindómiel merely due to custom. I feel I should… _cancel it out."_

And it was done.

* * *

" _Since when have you started thinking of fairness, bloody pirate?"_ thought Herumor, choosing not to say a word- Fellheart's hearing was not to be trusted.

"Full authority it is, then. You have your move, Lady Tindómiel. Proceed." said the Battlemaster, seeming completely unfazed.

" _Thank you."_ said Tindómiel to Kharan, with a genuine smile. Kharan's cheeks suddenly turned a tinge of ruby, and he started coughing to hide it.

Fellheart knew he was the centre of attention now, and therefore took the first chance to speak. He then began speaking of various boring and trivial topics, to discourage attention- a great tactic. He had little to say anyway, Herumor realised- and merely wished attention on someone else.

It all proceeded, with Tindómiel beginning a new topic of debate- a trade agreement with Gondor, and how many would agree to it. She took care to try and fulfil every proposal Kharan would present- and he presented few, for his attention was now on other matters- and then began fulfilling Murazor's demands. She wished the Battlemaster on her side.

Murazor was unwilling to consider an alliance, for one reason.

" _We are knights, my Queen. We need war- we thrive on war. We are not diplomats- we are the Nár-Rîm! The Lords of fire!"_

"You are sworn to protect Rhûn, my lord Battlemaster! If we take this step, this would ensure it!"

Herumor decided to speak.

"Do you not recognise it, Lord Murazor? This step would not 'ensure' Rhûn's protection- it would eliminate the need for Rhûn's protection. It would eliminate the need for the Nár-Rîm, therefore. This- this witch- would have your noble order disbanded, and thus her only opposition removed! She would not mind colonisation, so long as she has power! I beseech you, my lord, heed my words!"

"DO NOT INSULT THE QUEEN, LORD HERUMOR!" shouted the Battlemaster.

"Yet, your point has been noted. What say you, my Queen?"

"It appears you have forced my hand. This was a secret told to me by Queen Arwen- yet now, I must reveal it. King Elessar plans to purge evil from Middle-earth. It will start with the east… then the Misty Mountains, and then the North. The King has ample resources to complete this task, but he wishes the aid of excellent warriors such as this order can offer, to honour us and our name. You will be quite busy- I assure you- and you will be honoured beyond what Sauron ever gave."

"And what of the times after? Are we to leave these lands? Are we to be subsumed within the military of Gondor? Are we to be integrated into a larger military order of the east? I will have this order endure, and forevermore!" said Murazor. Herumor thought that the queen had been stymied.

"Nay, my lord. I have been assured, as I now assure you, that this order will endure- and that Gondor will try its utmost to ensure that it does. Emperor Khamûl's name will not be sullied with the brand of a Nazgûl. We will stay true.

Furthermore, Elessar will broker an agreement with the Dwarves. Do you not wish peace, lord Battlemaster? The Dwarves may hold grudges, but Elessar and Thorin Stonehelm who rules under the mountain are the best of friends. Do you not remember the siege of Erebor, my lord? What did it accomplish?"

" _Many Nár-Rîm died that day…"_ whispered Murazor, stuck in remembrance. He had been a part of the siege, and had personally felled King Brand of dale with one of his cruel knivse. He remembered the Dwarf King, Dáin Ironfoot, who despite his age stood firm over the body of his friend and cut down many elite Nár-Rîm. Murazor had himself fought the King, and had suffered a mighty blow to the chest and a large scar to the face from the King's axe.

Only by the aid of another Náron was he able to slay the King.

"I acknowledge your concerns, my Queen, but Dwarves hold grudges. Will they forgive me?"

"I- perhaps. They can be reasonable, as I said. King Stonehelm is a surprising intellectual, although he is known as a dread warrior on the battle. Perhaps they cannot forgive you, but they may forgive your successor…" said she. Murazor nodded.

"Or perhaps, and I do not in the least hope for this to happen, they will declare a duel against you. You may have to face a powerful opponent- perhaps King Stonehelm himself. If you win and spare your opponent, perhaps friendship can blossom. If you lose, well…"

"It would be a worthy death. A great death. A death serving as the harbinger of peace." whispered Murazor.

Herumor cursed silently with the foulest expletives he had ever learnt from Sauron.

 _Of course she knew how to play him! Of course she knew he cared not for his life- or course she knew a Náron's 'divine duty' was to seek death in battle from a mightier foe. Melkor damn it!_

"Yes, my lord. And if that strikes you as impossible…"

"No. I will consent to it. For Rhûn- always for the good of Rhûn." Murazor uttered, and all Nár-Rîm present saluted him.

Tindómiel did a little bow, and Herumor decided that it could wait no longer. He had to play his gambit.

"To those who will listen to me- to those who have not been blinded by false words- I say, hearken to me! There is only one way, and one way alone. The Dark Lord's power is not yet gone."

" _Not yet gone?"_ asked quite a few. Herumor unstrapped the mace from his back, and Murazor stiffened, ready to rise.

"Dûrghâsh." muttered the Black Núménorean, and dark flames burst from the iron tip of the mace. All present thought the same- _'Inconceivable!'_

"Behold, my friends! The Darkness still avails us! There is only one path left- and it is a hard road. A deadly road, a wearying road- yet one we must take nonetheless. This road leads north, to the one place not yet touched by the treacherous and ever-present tendrils of Elessar's rule… the Fell Kingdom of Angmar."

' _Ridiculous!' 'Impossible!' 'How?' 'A great venture!' 'Who here is so brave to undertake it?'_

It was working. The council was astir.

"We shall rise as the lords and masters of this Foruth Age! However, we must fight for it. In Angmar there are to be found many secrets, veiled yet present, which we can use to our advantage. Great sorcery and darkness there is to be harnessed for the good of not only Rhûn and Harad but for the entirety of Arda! Rise, my friends, and join me! On to victory!"

Herumor had given a rousing speech. All were thinking furiously. Only one remained unruffled- and it was not Murazor or Fellheart. _It was Tindómiel._

Her choice was irrevocable.

"Lords of the Council, I have one way to end this and more quickly. I declare a vote to **upstage** Lord Herumor, and to remove him henceforth and permanently from this council!

If this venture should fail, we will, without further deliberation, grant his request- it makes no difference save time, as if you refuse, the grip of the shadow on your hearts will be too great to choose any other proposition.

Lord Battlemaster, you need not provide any Nár-Rîm for his cause, as that is your judgment- but I bid you, ordain this vote!"

All eyes turned to Murazor- Fellheart's included.

Such a vote, by the code, could not proceed without another vote, yet if the Battlemaster of the Nár-Rîm wished, he could ban any person from ever entering the halls of the Nár-Rîm again on pain of death. There was, hence, a loophole- since the Council met in the halls of the Nár-Rîm, prohibition of entry would count as expulsion from the Council. Tindómiel had cleverly exploited this loophole- yet, she had had to hand power over the matter to Lord Murazor.

The Battlemaster cleared his throat, and said in a resounding voice: "May the vote proceed. Lord Herumor, your choice counts for two."

Herumor immediately voted against. Dúrburz followed, and so did Khornath and Durrîb. That made five.

Unluckily for them, Ghâshthrak was the fifth member of the group. He decided that if Herumor was expelled and if he played a decisive role, and subsequently sought Murazor or Tindómiel's protection, one of them would give it, and he would keep his head on his shoulders. He voted against.

Dúrburz was aghast- yet Herumor stayed grim-faced. He had expected something like this to occur.

Tindómiel voted for, with grim conviction. Murazor was not allowed to vote, by the code.

Dákhnir of Khand, along with a Rhûnic and Haradric lord voted for. Just as the fourth, Úlairon of the South, was going to vote in favour, Herumor uttered silently from between gritted teeth:

"Remember how I spared you from the Dark Lord's wrath, Úlairon. Remember the blood-feud Súladân had declared on you and all of your holdings, and of how I, with my words, stopped him. Those incidents are long gone- but power I still have. Power to liberate your eyes from their sockets, and to undo the connection between your throat and your trunk. And for those who betray me- I can ensure fates far worse than death."

"No, wait, he is…" Tindómiel's words were ineffectual, as a cowed Úlairon voted against.

 _Six to Five._

Tindómiel and Herumor were glaring at each other, and Herumor had to give the young Queen credit- despite his three thousand years of experience, Tindómiel was holding up remarkably well.

All other eyes were on Kharan, and he suddenly felt hot. He did not want Herumor to exit- but for Herumor's help, he would have been killed due to a vicious intrigue fifteen years ago (unbeknownst to him, Herumor had started it) - and yet the thought of Tindómiel entered his mind.

So kind, so charming, so lovely… she had fulfilled every one of his demands… she was up for the taking…

Tindómiel expertly read her face.

" _Kharan? For me?"_ she whispered, doing a perfect imitation of a lovestruck maiden, though in truth she cared little.

"I vote in favour of the expulsion!" he shouted, to applause and cheers. Herumor glared at him, a truly vicious glare- and the King sank back into his seat, wishing himself dead.

 _Six to Six._ It fell to one predictable member again.

Lord Fellheart's policy of always being the last to vote was paying its dividends. Both sides were waitin in suspense.

"Lord Fellheart, if you would only help us this once so that we can be rid of this filth, I will do my utmost to ensure…"

"Thank you, my dear Queen, but I think I can do quite well by myself." said Fellheart, making a rather ostentatious presentation of his fell heart.

Herumor thought quickly. Fellheart could make any decision- his refusal of Tindómiel did not in any way mean that he would choose the Núménorean. If he lost, Herumor would lose a great deal of resources- and to ensure victory, he decided to make a sacrifice.

"This once, Fellheart, this once… you know of what I speak. You know of its merit. You know what glorious heights we can reach. I promise you, and this is not a deception of Sauron- I will fulfil the very wildest of your dreams should I succeed in my quest. Your corsairs shall have warded ships unsinkable by man. Only one word, and you can have all I can offer…"

"It seems I have received my proposals. I have judged the merit of each one of them. Lady Tindómiel, your offer has been considered, and refused by me in words. Lord Herumor, on the other hand- your proposal most certainly has merit. I can seek to gain a lot f=should you succeed…"

Herumor looked up, the light of hope in his eyes. Fellheart nodded. Shadow would triumph.

"Lord Herumor, your worthy proposal merits my vote…"

"Melkor be praised, thank you!"

" _ **Merits my vote to be against you."**_

 _And so he had been deceived._

"Wh- what- how…"

"Oh, I _am_ sorry, my friend- it is just that what I can accomplish _without_ you far outweighs what I can accomplish with you."

"No-how- impossible! How can you stand to gain from t-"

"In more ways than you could possibly imagine." And with that, The Galvorn Helm turned away.

" _So be it. Lord Herumor, you are henceforth and here-on out expelled from the Council of the East. Leave and begone- seek not to return to these halls on pain of death."_

Herumor, throughout his long life, had led a life of betrayal. He had betrayed others most frequently, and whenever he had been betrayed, he had planned beforehand to set it right. Now, however… he felt _sad._ He could not have done anything about it.

And then, it rose. His icy, wrathful temper, which he kept under iron restraint in the cold halls of his mind, rose like a tempest to devour all.

" _ **Before I leave, I have this one request- to speak my last."**_

Murazor stiffened, clearly not wishing to allow it, but did so.

" _ **People of Rhûn, you have, in the most heinous manner, betrayed me! By the hand of the turncoat Fellheart I have been struck down, and I warn you this- Gondor is not the only enemy. There is a darker, more powerful evil at work in Middle-earth, and it will crush you.**_

 _ **BY THE ENTIRE AGE OF ARDA I HAVE LIVED, BY MY FAITHFUL SERVICE TO THE LORD GORTHAUR AND THE ALMIGHTY MELKOR, AND BY THE DOOMSMAN OF THE VALAR HIMSELF, I PASS THIS DOOM!**_

 _ **MERE MAN I MAY BE AND YET I PASS IT NONETHELESS- THESE HALLS WILL BE DESTROYED. YOU ALL WILL BE DESTROYED! YOU WILL BE CRUSHED BY LIGHT AND THEN DEVOURED BY DARKNESS. AND THE FINAL BLOW WILL COME FROM THE HAND OF NONE OTHER BUT FELLHEART HIMSELF!"**_

Herumor roared these words in anger, and the halls shook. A lightning bolt struck outside, scaring the Núménorean- he had not meant to utter a true curse, and had not thought what he said would actually turn out a doom- but the signs were ominous. He had never tried any such thing before, and was terrified by it.

"Abrazânim, dûr!" he shouted, and left with his men.

 **GLOSSARY:**

 **Khornath, Durrib, Dakhnir, Kharan and Ulairon are names.** **I do not feel any compulsion to write the meanings, as these are not very important characters.**

 **Abrazanim-** **Steadfast Men/ Men of strength- A Núménorean honorific for soldiers.**

 **Kan and Dur (Adûnaic)-** **To stop and to leave respectively**

 **Náron-** **Man of the Nar-Rim**

 **Durghash-** **A Morgul incantation in Black Speech. Means 'Dark Fire'.**

 **A/N: Fellheart is evil. Very, very evil.**

 **I did manage to get a chapter out this month, after all.**

 **I will FINALLY get back to the good perspective in the next chapter. After that follows an ominous one.**

 **Thank you for the reviews.**


	23. In Fellowship We Stand

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 8: In Fellowship We Stand till Ending Doom**

* * *

 **Mersday, 4 Astron 1431 Shire-Reckoning**

 **OR 11 Fourth Age**

* * *

Aragorn II Elessar, the King of Gondor, looked fondly out of the upper balcony of the Palace at his two dearest friends.

Of course, there was a very large company of fully-armed, majestic dwarves following them- and they were riding ponies.

The Lord of Aglarond, Gimli son of Glóin, rode abreast with Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien. They were both riding horses, unlike the rest of the group, and Legolas rode atop a pure white specimen whereas Gimli sat upon one equally black.

Aragorn's dwarvish friend had become quite the rider, as he had heard from Legolas, and the elf had trained him well- indeed to such an extent that Gimli could now discuss horses with King Éomer and manage to understand half of the terms he used.

Aragorn looked at the dwarven company- indeed, some of the warriors were riding ponies, but they were Gimli's personal guard. The dwarves at the back were riding great rams of the Iron Hills, with some even riding war-boars. The Dwarves at the end of the group were carrying some extra weapons and mail- those of Gimli's guard, who rode at the front.

It appeared that the Dwarf had become quite so attached to horses that he would have his personal guard ride only horses. However, since it was difficult for all to become as proficient as him (with or without elven training), they had been obliged to ride ponies. The ponies could not carry as much load as the rams, and since all dwarves never compromised on the armament, those at the back were obliged to pull rather more than their weight.

As it appeared, some Dwarrowdams, or Dwarf Women had come as well, on caravans that followed the 'cavalry'. The group was almost entirely dwarvish, and Legolas, though he did stand out a little, seemed perfectly at home.

"Terendul, please give a proper welcome to my friends in the city of kings" said Aragorn, waving to a robed, professional figure, who strode off.

"As for you, Hador, arrange for the Kitchens to provide a large bucket of flour…"

"Lord Gimli of Aglarond and Prince Legolas of Ithilien. The King Elessar wishes to extend his warmest regards to those he regards closer to himself than even his brothers. May it be known, my lords, that…" the Gate-guard began.

"By Mahal, I'd appreciate it if you shut your trap for a moment. If the old rascal wishes to greet us, he'll do it himself. If not, and this matter of royalty has gotten to his head, I can be relied upon to disabuse him of that notion. Now, where is he?" asked Gimli, rather impatiently, prompting the gate-guard to abruptly shut his mouth.

Legolas, however, muttered something that sounded distinctly like ' _Dwarves'_ and waved it down, saying: "Pray take no offence, my good man. That is simply a way of demanding his friend's presence- The King, to be precise."

Ulmendil, the gate-guard, was a diplomatic man, and recovered smoothly.

"None was taken, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me, I can…"

"By my beard, has he gained a limp? What's taking him so long, Legolas?"

" _Dwarves"_ said Legolas again, this time within Ulmendil's earshot. The Guard knew not where the sudden urge to chuckle came from, but he repressed it quickly.

Gimli got down expertly from his horse, looking quite the majestic figure with his intricate mail (which he wore everywhere), his finely-carved helmet, with ornate markings similar to the water-reflections of Aglarond's caves, and of course, his bejewelled and painstakingly-braided beard.

Of course, Legolas' appearance needed no introduction, and his graceful manner and physique seemed to defy all words.

" _If I were a woman…"_ Ulmendil found himself thinking, before silencing it. Begone, thought! Why did this always happen to him, in the presence of heroes he practically worshipped?

Legolas was quick to note the changing of colour in his cheeks, and said:

"Rest easy, my friend. Neither I nor my esteemed friend care for matters of formality- we have merely come to Gondor to see our friend-"

"Who seems to have turned into a right slob, mind you- The things that sitting in ornate halls can do to your manner…" interrupted Gimli.

"-and have had a long journey." finished Legolas.

Over ten years, the two had consolidated their friendship to levels no elf and dwarf had previously reached- Gimli had even taught Legolas Khuzdûl, and had told him his true inner-name.

They had been to Aglarond and Fangorn together, and despite being Lords of separate realms, they never seemed to be apart- always delighting in each other's company.

A long-robed diplomat rode down on a fine horse, with the same, political, fake smile of all, ready to deliver a flowing greeting, when Legolas decided to act on a whim of his.

He made a shrill, panicked sound, and the frightened horse gave an indignant neigh, swayed and backpedalled furiously- to the effect of throwing the 'valet' to the floor.

"That never gets old, does it lad?" said Gimli happily- then he quickly took hold of Legolas' shoulders and smashed the Elf's head against his own, helmeted one. Legolas appeared remarkably unfazed, retaining the little smile of amusement- truth be told, that had been done quite so many times to him that he was now very much used to it. He also suspected that his skull was now far thicker and stronger than those of most elves.

"Ahem... erm… the K-King of Gondor sends his…"

Legolas released a silent chuckle, managing to remain, in appearance, dignified. The same could be said of Gimli- the dwarf had mastered the art of hiding laughter behind coughs. It was all, of course, in reference to a certain detail of the valet's appearance.

"Oh, by Eru, I suppose I… pardon me, my lords! I assure you, there is naught of weariness to please found in Minas Tirith!" said the valet hastily, and ran away. His horse did flee with his cloak and part of his tunic in tow.

"Come now, is there always a need to force some mischief upon my messengers?" said a bemused voice, the owner of which they could not detect.

"My word, lad, I see you haven't lost your skill yet!" said Gimli, looking around for his friend.

"Behind that house" whispered Legolas, and Gimli ventured to the aforementioned house.

"Why, Legolas, there's… Oh, you pesky tricksters, I'll kill the lot of you!"

* * *

Aragorn jumped down from the roof of the house, having poured quite a lot of flour over Gimli's head, drawing peals of laughter from Legolas.

"By Mahal, has he gotten fat!" said a white Gimli, now emerging, and the two sandwiched Aragorn in a hug.

"Estel, i Aranwedh…"

"You haven't finished teaching me yet, Legolas! Westron or Khuzdûl only!"

" _Dwarves."_ said Aragorn and Legolas together, while Gimli huffed a bit.

"How much time did you have to aptly welcome Gimli? I think I saw you on the top balcony of the seventh level…"

"Scarce more than ten minutes, if you have been keeping track. I send Terendul to hold you up while I made preparations- poor fellow, his stoic professionalism does not allow him to understand the ways of friends. Please do try not to make a mockery of him next time, Legolas… but 'fat' as I may have become, I have still not lost my speed, it seems."

The Prince of Mirkwood gave an over-exaggerated nod and bowed, saying "As you wish, my liege…" prompting a glare from Aragorn, and they moved forth, talking loudly in Khuzdûl (for Aragorn had received instruction in that language from Gandalf), so that none could comprehend them.

A dwarf seemed to be following them around. He climbed the hidden stairs behind them and took every path that they took. Aragorn had not the heart to send him away, until it became plain that the Dwarf was not going to leave them alone.

"Legolas, i dwarrow…" he asked, but Legolas merely gave him a doubtful look. Gimli did not seem to have a clue either- and was oddly unwilling to confront the dwarf. Aragorn sighed, and confronted him-

"Perhaps I am mistaken, but it is not common for me to be followed when in the company of friends. Pray state your purpose, my good dwarrow, and if it does not go against your purpose, I would appreciate it if I was given some time alone with my friends."

"Well, me lord, perhaps yair forgettin' someone ye have no' thought abou' in recent times." said the 'dwarf', in a clearly over-exaggerated accent. Aragorn's brow furrowed. He halted.

"The next time your masters choose to send a spy, I do hope they teach them how to correctly speak like dwarves, you fiend!" he roared suddenly, and with inhuman speed, slashed Andúril which was sheathed a millisecond ago at the 'dwarf's helmet. Much to his surprise, the Dwarf dodged. Aragorn held the sword in a high guard, holding the spy at bay- when the spy took off his helmet and _beard_.

"Well, I never!" said Aragorn in surprise, as before him there stood a most startled Peregrin Took.

Legolas stepped out from behind Aragorn, in shock. Gimli was found to be behind his waist, ready to pull him back sharply should he attempt to strike.

"Estel! Man nai nad?

"I know not. I… know not." said Aragorn silently. He slid Andúril into its sheath.

"What is it, Aragorn? You almost killed me there- I think I have quite a few years and a right to live them, you see!"

"Forgive me, Pippin- forgive me. It is a matter of little consequence that has been bothering me lately- but do come and make yourself comfortable. Gondor's every room is open to you, and so it is with Minas Tirith. Rest, my friend, and be easy."

"Be easy? How can I, when…"

"Please. I will speak of this to you later. Please, Pippin, for my sake."

The hobbit cast a dubious look at his old friend, and moved away slowly, keeping his eyes on the King. The Thain, however, recognised that it was to be a talk limited to the three hunters alone.

"…but all the laughter! That indulgent smile! What is the matter with…" Gimli was saying. Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but Legolas silenced him.

"Can you not see? He has attempted to make us feel comfortable, when he himself is not. I feel there is aught he has wont to say, but wishes not to deprive us of what he hopes will be good night's rest." said Legolas.

Aragorn looked at the one who was perhaps his closest friend on Arda- perhaps even more so than Elladan and Elrohir- and the little twinkle in the elf's far-seeing eyes reminded him of how well he could see through all the veils of pretence Aragorn could cast at him. Legolas looked back at him encouragingly.

" _Il eran a er ilan, mellon-iaur. I tass hen no echal ero."_

* * *

Aragorn felt a wave of nostalgia at that remark- _'All for One and One for All'._ It is what he, Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir used to solemnly swear under the shade of the trees of Imladris- and they had thus far maintained it.

He knew that the elf could be as stubborn as his dwarven friend, and that they would not be swayed. Besides- the action of his intent would be best done with them by his side. It would be somewhat of an honour.

"So be it."

And he led them up the winding stairs, long and weary way forgotten. They followed behind him as if they were brimming with energy despite being sapped of it. He would tell them of it immediately.

"Imrahil's expedition ended in disaster. The entirety of his army has been annihilated- swept away as a bitter wind of the north would a stray leaf. He fought valiantly, and yet it was doomed. Only by the assistance of Landroval of the Thoronath was he saved."

" _And this was not brought to my attention? Estel, what is the purpose of our fellowship?"_ asked Legolas. He was beginning to worry about his friend.

"It was not my wish to worry you. You seemed to be having such a marvel of a time by Gimli's side at Aglarond after your sojourn in Fangorn, and such matters would only serve to darken your days. I know you, Legolas- find what joy in Middle-earth you can lest you weary of it. And as an afterthought- you did not think to tell me about the tragedy of your father's realm."

"I took care not to tell you. 'Twas I who asked my father to keep this from your ear. I did comprehend that if you received but a whiff of wind, you would have scrambled to aid us in any way necessary at your expense. We need naught that is bought in such kind. Besides, I did not wish…" Legolas stopped abruptly. He was in the process of presenting the same reason to his friend that had been presented to him. It was Gimli who spoke up.

"Ah, Aragorn. You have grown, grown before my eyes- and grown a little too much, by the looks of it. You see, the Mazarbûl Durinûl speak of the sundering of the Elves- why were the Noldor sundered from the kin of Legolas here? A simple misunderstanding. Why did that fiery lord of tantrums, Fëanáro…"

Aragorn had never thought of Fëanor in that way. Legolas gave a knowing look- it was one of the benefits of having a dwarf for company.

"As I was saying, why did that- ahem- drama-queen who was _almost_ as dear to Mahal as his own children fall out? Due to things left unsaid. We are, as Legolas would say- 'An exact and precise antithesis to that sorrowful history'. We are bound in fellowship till the very end. Let that be an end to your bickering, lads, and on with this tale that rightly makes Durin's blood boil in my veins."

Looking gratefully at Gimli, Legolas encouraged Aragorn to continue the tale, which he did in short and concise terms.

He did not proceed in a chronological order, and haphazardly added in parts he discovered later on. Legolas was most surprised to hear that Thranduil had come to Gondor and attended the little conference Aragorn had held among his most trusted allies.

He returned to the battle and to the question of the Black Núménorean Herumor- as they knew not his identity as the opposing general, little attention was paid to him apart from interest purely academic.

And then, he spoke of the Thunderous One.

"A spectre of the airs, a lord under ruinous skies, as I am told. Legolas, you will have heard his name, and from your father, no less. Lightning appears his weapon, and he wielded a halberd in its guise, striking with such terrible ferocity that even Amroth's elite Swan-Knights were butchered under its cruel might.

"And he appeared a 'Knight in shining armour with a plume of blue feathers on his head? Riding a horse impossible except perhaps in the foul environs of Angband?"

"Why, you describe him to a fault!"

"That… that **Abrâful shaikmashâz! Kakhuf inbarathrag! Nî durzumêzil kekhaf ma zamahkekhefmi ai-hil!"** shouted Legolas.

"GIMLI!" roared Aragorn, rounding on the dwarf.

Gimli looked a bit guilty. He had clearly not discriminated in the least when he taught Legolas Khuzdûl- Aragorn was sure that the last, particularly impressive (and foul) construction had been Gimli's own.

"Well, what if I taught him a little… extensively? And that last one was not mine, Aragorn, not mine- Legolas, I admit myself impressed. Glorious work- and by Mahal does that pathetic coward of a Knight deserve it. On with it, lad."

Aragorn took a moment to recover from such… colourful language used by an elf, no less, and strode forth. He narrated the details of Imrahil's brave stand. The elf and the dwarf nodded, in a gesture of silent respect- the Prince was seventy-six now, and getting on in years. He remained, however, an excellent warrior, and by his martial mastery had managed to effect an impossible escape- but it would not be long before even his stalwart knees weakened. It was the fate of all men.

And finally, they were come to a chamber at the top of the citadel. Legolas and Gimli recalled that it was where Denethor would once sit, and contest a battle of will against Sauron- unbeknownst that the Dark Lord was toying with him.

It had been expanded by Gondor's architects and was now a sprawling chamber, the drapings having been changed from black to red and gold. The embroidery of an eagle with a star upon its brow was to be found- a memento of Aragorn's days as Thorongil.

There was a throne at the centre of the room, now flanked by various surrounding seats.

The Guard at the side, who happened to be Haldir, looked up.

Life at the White City was something the marchwarden had taken to rather quickly. It was fascinating to live among these Atani, and he had contrived to continue in his current guise. He, however, would be leaving soon.

"Haldir, mellon. Nallo Elladan a Erohir." said Aragorn.

The Wood-elf left, recognising the purpose of the meeting. The three advanced, and beheld yonder a circular object wrapped in red and golden cloth.

Legolas and Gimli knew it to be Denethor's palantír, and had foreknowledge of its 'correction', yet they knew not whence it had come.

It would be something of a shock, yet an honour nonetheless.

Aragorn busied himself drawing the curtains, and bade his friends sit. He carefully removed the cloth, and sat himself on the throne in front of the palantír. The sword Andúril he retrieved from the sheath, and held it in hand. He looked in a hollow manner at the perfectly-circular orb, and waited.

The faint sound of elven feet came to his awaiting ear, as his brothers crept into the room and took their seats. Silent greetings passed between them and Legolas and Gimli, and they waited, knowing better than to attempt to command Aragorn's attention.

He had laid his hand on the seeing-stone, and all it betrayed was a writhing mass of shadow and bright flame. The King's brow furrowed, and he thought for a moment, beads of sweat trickling down his brow.

"A deep trance of thought- well-nigh an elven trance. I had not expected this, but with Estel… one can never know." said Elrohir.

They silently observed a moment of quiet triumph displayed on Aragorn's face, and they watched him do something they never could have expected.

 _He pulled the crown of the seven stars from his brow, and took it upon his left hand. In his right, he reverse-held And_ _ú_ _ril, tip pointing directly behind him._

Forsaking the throne, he lowered himself in a kneel- eyes closed in a picture of tranquil obeisance.

And then they saw what no eye upon Middle-earth yet had the privilege to have beheld.

Light unlike any other. Light more glorious and more encompassing than the light of the Two Trees could ever hope to be. It was not blinding, in any way- in fact, it seemed toned down to accommodate for their bewildered eyes.

It enriched and ennobled, and brought a great sense of hope into their hearts.

It reaffirmed what they stood for- what the fellowship stood for. _Sheer correctness. Doing right simply because it was right._

Seeing their friend swathed in that marvellous light, Legolas and Gimli were reminded of what he truly was- he was a symbol, a perfect symbol of all that was good in the world. In that hour, despite his obeisance, he appeared more glorious than he ever had save in battle.

They hastily pushed aside their chairs and knelt as well, for Valinor it indubitably was whence the other being came.

They were now convinced, and Legolas dared hope it was Elbereth and Gimli Mahal who chose to commune with them.

' _My lord Manw_ _ë_ _. My sword is yours, O Aran Einior.'_

" _ **Rise, my child, and rise all the mightier with my blessing. Late is the hour- later than you think, and I have a cause for regret, for I must inform you of a great duty I must entrust into your capable hands. For now, however- there is one very dear to me who would much like to speak with you."**_

* * *

 **GLOSSARY:**

 **Terendul and Hador are names. Hador, if you'll remember, is the young errand-runner from prior chapters.**

 **Mersday, 4 Astron (Shire-Reckoning):** **Thursday, 4 April**

" **Estel, i Aranwedh…"** **Aragorn, the Kingship… (interrupted)**

" **Legolas, i dwarrow…":** **Legolas, the dwarf…**

 **Man nai nad (Sindarin):** **What is the matter?**

" **Il eran a er ilan, mellon-iaur. I tass hen no echal ero." (Sindarin):** **All for one and one for all, old friend. This task is not yours alone to bear.**

 **Mazarb** **û** **l Durin** **û** **l (Neo-Khuzd** **û** **l by the Dwarrow Scholar):** **The Records of Durin**

 **Abrâful shaikmashâz! Kakhuf inbarathrag! Nî durzumêzil kekhaf ma zamahkekhefmi ai-hil!" (Neo-Khuzd** **û** **l):** **Spawn of Rats! Excrement of Goats! The last one is too harsh for the fic's rating and therefore not mentioned!**

" **Haldir, mellon. Nallo Elladan a Erohir." (Sindarin):** **Haldir, friend. Call Elladan and Elrohir.**

 **Aran Einior (Sindarin):** **Elder King of Arda**

* * *

 **A/N: I know it has been a very long time, and it might be an equally long time before I update again. In preparation for the future, I have chosen to take a heavier job, and I find my time rather limited as of late. Worry not, though, for I will not cease writing.**

 **The next chapter features N** **á** **mo finding out he was not told about 'The Terror of Tirion' episode, and generally solving the Valar's mysteries for them. It also features a certain maia who would very much like to speak with his old… let us say prot** **é** **g** **é** **…**


	24. The Rise of the Fell Kingdom

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **Chapter 23: THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

* * *

The Cold wastes of Angmar were all but silent, save for a little (and most annoying and persistent) tune being whistled from unseen lips.

The lips were unseen as they were very well-concealed by a splendid, blue helmet with a lot of blue feathers protruding out at the top.

" _I'm the Knight who upturned the table,_

 _My songs are formidable…_

 _At all times I do screech rhymes_

 _That are quite un-sing-able…"_

And then the ice split on a thunder-fit, with quite a predictable outcome.

"By Udûn's wollies, why is it always me?" he protested, being forced to attempt to claw his way out of the crater he had unknowingly created- _again_. Thankfully, there was no one to… _there was someone._

The chill, nigh-palpable air around him seemed to- _bend._ If there was not so much hail, he would not have seen it at all- yet some of the hail seemed to disappear at an exact spot.

The next instant, the 'spot' seemed to increase in length, as more hail started disappearing- and something large and completely black issued forth from it.

The Black figure in shadowy armour, normally towering over any in his vicinity, was hunched and brought low. He stumbled forward, seeming to lose his balance, and staggered down- swiftly producing a terrifying black sword out of nowhere, it seemed, and thrusting it deep into the ice to grab onto as a hold.

Of course, to observe this spectacle, the Knight had to release his own hold- and in a few moments had fallen back to the bottom of the crater. He resigned himself to disincarnating again.

Lord Mormanar was, for the first time- _tired._ His iron knees seemed to have crumpled, and he rested for a moment, unable to move, keeping Ainunarcar sunk into the ground as a hold. One of his gauntleted hands appeared to be terribly damaged and jarred from the literal cliff-hanging that he had done.

Using the Marred Flame on the ring was his last resort- there was far too little time to attempt anything else- and it had drained him. It was also, perhaps, the most secure way of ensuring victory.

He was about to call on the Dark Lord for strength, when his master's voice echoed in his mind:

" _Use the ring."_

Mormanar glanced coldly as he ever did at his new… _winning_ , now no longer fiery and ablaze with the elegant strokes of Sauron's hand in the dark tongue. There existed a weak pull at his will, asking him to renounce the Dark Lord and become his own master- a simple enough matter to quell. The ring had suffered a significant… erosion, perhaps, to its will. He felt it, and pulled on it for might- _and naught came._

Mormanar was met with resistance, for the ring _did not want_ to give him strength.

The Death-master drew something that could be termed a harsh, shuddering, devouring breath, and proceeded to systematically dismantle the ring's metaphysical defences and sway its obedience from Sauron.

" _ **Ring of Sauron, forever it is your duty to serve the Dark Lord. Sauron is not now Dark Lord- that is my master. Serve him, or I will crumble the scrap of f**_ _ **ë**_ _ **a within you until you are useless as a gold object without any adornment to grace it."**_ he ground out darkly, of course never intending to carry out his threat. It worked, however, and the ring allowed him to derive strength from it.

The Doombringer raised his iron helm, the black, twisted spikes rearranging themselves from the angular imitation of the eye of Sauron to the Iron Crown before, and he stood, the shadows arranging themselves around their master.

 _It had been done_

And, of course, he found that a brilliant-blue figure was suddenly on top of him. With determination born of contempt, he simply refused to fall, and therefore the figure bounced off him and fell with a rather loud crash.

Hellërúcir had, of course, made the mistake of incarnating right on top of Mormanar.

" _Pathetic"_ said the abyssal voice, drawing a groan from the Knight.

"Oi- well, you did it, did yer?" he asked gruffly.

"In a manner of speaking that is most certainly not yours." came the cold, indifferent reply.

The Knight decided to not argue.

"What lollygagging d'yer think we oughtter do now?"

Mormanar held the ring in his iron fist, but did not wear it. He would not deign to service his 'companion' with a reply. They lingered in wait for their master.

* * *

 _Loyalty… Betrayal._

 _Hope… Demise._

 _Glory… Suffering._

 _All a twisted, terrible paradox._

The life he lived was in itself an oxymoron, and he hated it- yet he had no intention to cease the inexorable strife that had doomed him thrice over.

This world- Arda- it was in essence paradoxical. _Ordered Chaos and Chaotic Order._ Each concept was relative, something he could not bring his mortal mind to bear. One property struck him as ever-present, however- that it was ruthless. Utterly, utterly ruthless.

The mind of an Atan was not suited to grasp this harsh reality- not meant to understand this terrible secret. All in Arda was tied to doom- and the Atani, among all races, were the most tenuously bound by it, having the power to change it. Yet as one gained in might and wisdom, one lost the ability to change. There awaited naught for Herumor at the end but his doom, and he knew it.

 _He was no longer expected to persist- how very na_ _ï_ _ve of those who expected him not to._

He could feel his doom tightening around his mortal fëa- the very air seemed to churn and coil around him and himself only. He would feel as if he never really belonged in the world any more, as if he were a detached observer playing some game beyond his capabilities. His time had come and gone- and never would come again.

He feared he was become a determinist, and he suffered a most peculiar ailment. He was hounded by certainty- relentless certainty. Every time, that certainty was against him.

The Black Núménorean gave a bitter laugh. _Determinism?_ It could wait.

He may have sent hundreds, both friend and foe, to their doom- yet Herumor was one of the most staunch, devout believers in freewill that walked Middle-earth.

It was why he believed in his lord's principles. If the higher principles of the world could be ordered, then something could be taken from that… ruthlessness. Those under Sauron's rule would have the power to command- to alter- if they only had the will. _It would be beautiful._

It was every man's dream- a thoroughly doomed dream.

And yet here he was, at the pinnacle of the _selkath_ at Amrûn, having amassed a great gathering. This was Khornath's land, the last true seat of power in the East that held onto Sauron's name.

This would have to be a miracle in oratory, a marvel in speech. If he was to accomplish anything in the least, it was of the essence that he achieved the effect of mobilising the very language and tongue and bid it to do battle.

He was a master at his craft, he knew it well enough. Herumor sighed at the thought of the lies he would tell- perhaps, once, he would have smiled at the prospect- yet now he knew what awaited him at the end. He knew about the relentless cycle- and found no joy at driving others to the same doom. It was evil- yet a necessary evil.

He thought of the new order he intended to build- a new philosophy. A new way of life.

The Dark Tree, he liked to call it- and he would be the stem of this tree. The bark, old and weathered, and yet possessing an unyielding strength. It would bend- yet never break. It would crumble in on itself- slowly wither away- and yet it would never let the branches droop. A new cork would grow once the old lost its strength- and he would never lose his strength, not while he had mistakes to rectify. Not while he had lives to deliver.

The branches would be his agents, old and faithful- and if all went well, they would bear fruit. Ripe, beautiful fruit, the sweet essence of the new believers, young and strong, who would wield his way once they saw the wisdom in his words.

And even if one cut away all the branches and the fruit, one could never strike at the roots- for they found their beginnings in Lord Melkor himself, and were bound deeply in the hearts of each one of the race of men. Such would his endeavour be undying, ever persisting, even if he did not live to see its victory.

Standing at the pinnacle, at the forefront of this land that in Khand was considered sacred, Herumor found himself a grand sight. Thousands had flocked to his beckoning, some, perhaps, to denounce him for his attempts- they would all see wisdom, in the end.

* * *

 **Angmar- Home of Iron.**

 **Utumno- Hell of Darkness.**

 **Silent as the grave no more.**

The Lord of the Dark was come.

At first, Hellërúcir felt nothing but a slight chill, as if the winds were bending in respect, blowing forth uniformly as if in acknowledgement of a mighty lord.

He could see Lord Mormanar static- in a state of absolute rest. There was no sign of life, let alone movement, from the Doombringer.

 _And then he felt it._

An explosion of pure _might._

A terrifying warmth-cold-shock-void was come- with a single movement, such tremendous power was unleashed that it almost left him reeling. Despite his maiarin sight, he could barely see.

He perceived, however, that Mormanar had moved. The Doombringer had Ainunarcar at hand, gauntleted, iron fingers gripping the hilt in anticipation. The ring glowed a dull _black_ from its position of the crossguard of his blade, forced to acknowledge a dark, terrible power it could not hold or even begin to comprehend.

The Storm Knight wished to say a word, but could not. How could he, surrounded by such darkness- by such sheer glory?

At once, every last shadow of the land rose to crown their lord. Cracks and crevices in the deep earth opened, unleashing the dormant fury of its molten core. The ice cracked and broke, and Lava spewed out from the deepest layers of Arda, as the she was being torn apart.

Morgoth's lost power, the immeasurable, tremendous power the mightiest of the Ainur poured into the very heart of Arda rose to crown the new Dark Lord.

A thunderous wrath, an unstoppable rage. The director of this grand play that ensued upon Arda's stage.

The might the Dark Lord had drained from Melkor rose about his form. It had been difficult to leave Valinor, and he thankfully retained enough of his foresight to cloud the Valar's minds enough to make his way safely to Middle-earth. He did not incarnate in a corporeal form- he had transcended the need for it. So great was his might that he could influence both the realms impersonal and physical at once in their unique ways, instead of having to affect one to bring about events in the other.

Hellërúcir revelled in the might of his master, the glory of his presence- even though it was all shadow. Of the true fëa of the Dark Lord, naught could be said. It ran an extremely tight wavelength, not in the visible spectrum, and all about it was an air of concealment. The true thoughts of the Dark Lord none could tell.

The Knight was left speechless, completely speechless. Lord Mormanar stood against his master's unconquerable majesty, his unfathomable presence, before sinking down to his customary kneel. The ring rested on his palm, proffered to the Dark One.

In that moment, the Storm Knight knew his true purpose. _He belonged here._ Ever a being of chaos, ever unable to find his purpose- and the Dark Lord had given him one. What could he say- in this moment of moments- he could only think of one word fitting enough- and no adjective to represent the summation of his glory.

' _ **Master.'**_

And then the Dark Lord looked yonder, and saw him kneeling, and allowed himself a silent moment of triumph. He would care for his maiar, unlike Melkor before him. He would grant them what he must, once he had ensured his victory. They would deserve it well enough.

Lightning crossed the skies, crackled and thundered until it was nigh-white with the brightest of energy. The Storm Knight could not fathom or attempt to control any singular bolt, as they crossed each other with such great power- such great _magnitude-_ that it was all quite beyond his mind.

And yet in his master he noted a certain restraint- absolute _control._ Not a single forked bolt struck the ground. The bolts were exactly parallel when manifest as sheet lightning. The shadows that crowned him had an exact order, a perfect hierarchy.

The dark rage he had gained from Melkor was held in reins by an iron restraint. A dark will guided all his tremendous power in but one direction at a time. And in that moment, the Knight envied his master- for he could never be so very _perfect._ Not even if he had the power of all the Valar combined would he be able to purpose it so perfectly.

Perhaps that is why Mormanar was so efficient- for his master, to him, embodied the absolute meaning of glory and majesty itself. Naught but perfection could suffice for perfection.

Hellërúcir was not perfect, but he was prepared to cast such an illusion should his master will it. He would do all within his power- in that, his devotion was unquestionable. How could it not be? Here was the one who had silenced his torment, who had granted him a life and a purpose, and would grant him paradise at the end of all things?

And so satisfied with the attention and devotion of both his servants, the Dark Lord chose to begin.

Others had made him what he was- and he would turn others to what they must be.

The howling winds at once fell silent, and the mountains shook. The Iron Mountains trembled, and the ground shook- yet to a _note._

The two mightiest peaks of the Crissaegrim split apart by the slightest exertion of the Dark One's will, and the winds began blowing in a perfectly scheduled, ordered tone. Lightning cracked as if to a rhythm, the resonance giving rise to a terrible, thunderous tune.

 _It was all music._

A spectacle indeed it was when the now most powerful being on Arda unleashed his full might in a song of power. Tendrils of shadow poured forth, blockading the place from all else. The power of the Dark Lord set awash the airs, silencing the great song for the ears of all who would pry.

The winds rose and fell- a low, ominous rhythm. Avalanches fell forth from the mountains in accordance with the established tune, as all bowed to the will of a _Creator._

 _The Dark Lord would create._

 _And then it began._

The first soliloquy was a summoning of power- and the dialect is one impossible to comprehend for any who did not find their origin in the timeless halls. No words encompassed the song, for words are but vessels to convey true meaning- _and they are limited._

This great song, issuing forth from the fëa itself, was of a dialect contained in itself, a perfect vessel of limitless bounds to carry pure _thought._ It was perfection within itself, a representation of the ideal, a grand display of might in its purest form.

In truth, the Valar had only ever sung thus at the Ainulindalë, and _law_ itself was such that it was impossible to call forth such power from the fëa while incarnate outside the Timeless halls. So it was that all Valar had 'forgotten' to sing a true ainurin melody- all save Melkor. And it was from Melkor that the Dark Lord had taken, among many other things- understanding.

Lord Mormanar fought through the storm, head bowed in reverence and yet shadows containing his form, striving to not be undone by his master's might. As for Hellërúcir- he could think of nothing but the song, which was glorious. It awoke the fires within his core, gave him a sense of belonging he did not truly understand. And thus it was that the chaotic lord assisted his master in ordering things around his will, his nature forgotten and damned for the time.

The second melody had begun, a call to Arda and her shadows, the darkness the permeated the earth and its fabric. The Dark Lord sent an abrupt call of awakening to the Orcs, who had disappeared into the mountains to die in the holes from whence they came. It would be a rude awakening, and howls of bestial rage would pervade the night, yet he cared little. Orcs were not in the least part of his plan, and he cared naught of their breeding. They were but a distraction- a mere speck in contrast to the true darkness he planned to unleash.

The storm rising and the air bending, the Dark Lord finally saw fit to utter his thought in words.

 _A fortress would be built._

* * *

" **Darkness arisen in this shadow'd age**

 **Curtain to mine shattr'd yet belov** **é** **d stage,**

 **Rise, shadows fell, from dark Iron Hell,**

 **Consume ye doom'd in unceasing rage!"**

" **Shadow of Doom, Lord of the Night,**

 **Darkness crown'd with Iron Might,**

 **Arise, dark conqueror, arise and fight!**

 **In fires of doom set Arda alight!"**

" **Under ruinous skies became thy fate**

 **Storm ever bound in undying hate**

 **Master of entropy none can sate,**

 **I give thee thy purpose- obliterate!"**

" **Oblivion is thy name, dread darkness of yore**

 **He-who-was-a-mistake- await no more,**

 **Void-lord, unbeing, these lands thou shalt swathe**

 **Arda Sahta be devour'd in thy wrath!"**

" **Ye names I invoke, ye darkness I call**

 **Ye strength I summon to conquer all**

 **Part, Arda's peoples, for my power alone**

 **The Dark Lord must have a dark throne!"**

" **Bear witness to my work, Atar, thou dost-**

 **In Angmar land of cold and frost**

 **From the ashes of dread Utumno lost**

 **Rise unconquerable, dark D** **û** **rnost!"**

* * *

And so ended the song of the Dark Lord. His will rose about him, shadows flocked to crown him, and he stood a figure of dark majesty against the stars of Varda. The clouded skies of Angmar parted to reveal the heavens, and it was, to good or evil, a glorious sight.

There was a great tremor, and the ground broke apart and split. The mountains themselves fell away as if pieces of a completed puzzle now deconstructed, to be rearranged again.

Ore of Iron, Manganese, Silver and Platinum was summoned from the deepest reaches of the earth through the fissures, and began to unravel by the might of the Dark Lord. Their haphazard composition fell apart to reveal the pure metal ensconced within, and the liberated metal was blackened by shadow.

The Dark Lord once again bellowed forth a song, this time one of rearranging- one of dismantling a prototype to bring forth order. And then and there, Carn Dûm itself fell apart. Every last trace of Iron and other required metals was summoned forth from the wreckage.

This was a Power- nay, the Mightiest of the Powers, summoning the full might of his strength and will to reorder the land as he wished. The Iron Citadel which had never been felled broke and its disassembled structure wove itself into something greater.

And then came the final stroke- the Great Spires of Carn Dûm awaited. Built for years by the Witch King, the two great spires of stone and iron had served as the very symbol of Angmar, a towering testament to the dread within. They now fell apart in mere seconds, signalling the final end of Angmar and the rise of Dûrnost.

 **As the Dark Lord raised his hand, so did Mormanar the Ring, as did Hell** **ë** **r** **ú** **cir the skies. Pieces and blocks formed, to be held in place purely by their dark might. A Sanctum was constructed, then a hall, then a gate.**

 **There was now, for the Dark Lord, a Dark Throne.**

* * *

The Night was chill and drear, as ever it was in these wastes of the Forodwaith. Still the lone figure strode silently, caring not. Should the sky have fallen on Middle-earth by some miracle- to him it would be no matter.

Blizzards roared and shadows ascended, the ground quaking constantly. There was nary a sign of life in these parts, and yet the silent figure advanced, with the deliberation of one with a mind that could train its focus so very purposefully on its aim that nothing else mattered.

The gait was light and graceful- and yet he drew harsh, ragged breaths, as if there was something unsavoury about the concept of breath, as if it was a concept unnatural to him.

All that had any import was that one had called his name- one wielding the greatest power in the land, and he would find him in the end. He could not be turned away by anything.

Too long had he been _delayed, averted_ by the Powers that Be. And now someone had had the audacity to summon him by name.

' _Oblivion is thy name, dread darkness of yore_

 _He who was a mistake- await no more'._

It was certain.

" _Void-lord, unbeing, these lands thou shalt swathe_

 _Arda Sahta be devour'd in thy wrath!"_

He heard these words, masked even from the ears of the Valar. So this mighty Ainu knew of him, and knew of his power. The words sounded to him an invocation, a call to his darkness. _Such arrogance._ Pity- this Dark Lord would make a fine snack indeed.

For here at last was one who knew his name. **M** **ô** **rdath** , the Benighted one.

It would be a challenge indeed. He heard the first two invocations before his own- no doubt they would oppose him and fight for their master. It would make for a worthy challenge, to all the more sate his insatiable hunger.

For he was Master of the Night as much as he was benighted.

His march was in some way reminiscent of the inexorable advance of a reckoning- striding ever onward, unwilling to be delayed, and inevitable in its advent.

The first of the Crissaegrim came before him, and he passed it without much thought. Yet, his dark aura crumbled a stone entirely, and so set forth the motion of the one above it- and as an irresistible tide, the whole mountain was upon him, weakened as it was by the Dark Lord's power.

 _And in the next instant, the mountain was no more._

No trace of it remained upon Arda. The gloved hand that was raised fell elegantly down to where it was crossed on his back, and Môrdath marched forth once again, never slowing. An avalanche that had fallen before him disappeared into nothingness, clearing the way.

All he wished was that the Dark Lord would prove sufficient for his appetite.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Khornath was the one lord in the Council of Thirteen who supported Herumor and had a land to call his own, if you remember.**

 **Amr** **û** **n \- Khornath's territory in Khand. Means something close to 'Bastion/Fortress of Dawn'.**

 **The Dark Tree- The name of Herumor's cult in 'The New Shadow'. I think of it as an ideology rather than the simple name of an organisation.**

 **Selkath (Khandian/Rh** **û** **nic):** _ **Pinnacle.**_ **It is a tricky word, but the meaning here is a jagged cliff with a high seat from which to view the land and command it. An exalted podium for an orator.**

 **Crissaegrim (Quenya): Iron mountains. You may remember them from the Silmarillion.**

 **Atani \- 'Secondborn', race of Men.**

 **Arda Sahta (Quenya)- Arda Marred**

 **D** **û** **rnost (Sindarin)- Fortress of Nightfall**

 **M** **ô** **rdath (Sindarin)- Dark Abyss**

 **A/N: And so have I returned.**


	25. The Lie of Truth

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

* * *

 **Chapter 24: The Lie of truth**

' _For now, however- there is one very dear to me who would much like to speak with you.'_

* * *

The words of the Elder King yet resumed their echo within the mind of Aragorn- indeed, they were akin to the lowest thrum of an elven-harp that would never leave memory persist within the fëa itself long after the note was in verity played.

He could say naught of what had come to pass in Valinor, yet he would hazard that Lord Manwë had drawn his gaze awhile from Gondor. It was curious, however, that the holy light yet remained, in all its ennobling majesty.

 _And then the footsteps._

Not one among the three of them had forgotten the very distinct clatter of _those_ footsteps- they were measured yet decisive, pausing at some points, with perhaps a bit of huffing involved. What their ears missed was the heavy thump of the cane or staff the owner of the gate would regard indispensable.

At the same instant, their faces lit, as the prospect of a reunion with their friend of old brought elation to the heart of they who were once and were yet sung of as the Three Hunters.

With Gimli and Legolas crowding his either side, Aragorn let a smile that belonged and went away with the departed Third Age light once again his face- _and they were all of them disappointed._

Before them stood a Maia, one who belonged in the grand light of the Valar, and indeed cast a part of it himself. They saw then the face of Olórin the Wise, not that of their old friend Gandalf.

The King could not explain, in any capacity, the presence of the sole tear on his cheek- it was not there but an instant before, yet there it was, dropping as a pearl from his twinkling eye.

He could see Gimli's head droop very slightly beside him, and he could _feel_ the silent lament Legolas sang in his mind for Mithrandir of old.

"Hail, King Elessar- for that is the name you… _wear…_ now, is it not- Aragorn, my old friend?"

"It gladdens my heart to see you Gandalf, as always." said Aragorn, his voice… missing… something.

"By the Lord Mahal, does my beard tingle to see the likes of you again, old friend." said Gimli, but his cheer was somewhat… _feigned._

As for Legolas, he had set ajar his mouth, but he said nothing- for one word was on his tongue-tip. _'Mithrandir'._ He would call him _Mithrandir,_ and the name would be erroneous, for this was not Mithrandir who stood in his sight- and yet the elf could not in any event bring himself to call him by any other name.

It was at that moment that Legolas realized something had died within him- as had in the hearts of his two greatest friends as well.

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

' _In a single instant'._

For the Dreamlord, the term 'instant' would bind to itself a new meaning-an eternity.

Perhaps Námo was correct- perhaps they were all fools. _Non-linear time,_ it seemed, was the correct interpretation.

Time was not of the form of a line- nay, _it was a plane, prone to curvature._

The torture his brother must have felt, every instant an eternity, every day an ocean in which others were set adrift, and he the only one who stood firm, unable to extend his hands to the rescue of those adrift lest he lost his own firm hold…

It occurred to him how he had time enough to contemplate these thoughts, as he witnessed the Elder King summon his might to him, as he felt that one moment in the impersonal.

He could hear voices. Voices begging for the sound of his silent voice, pleading for him to gift them sleep. Were he to oblige them, he would be capable of doing naught else, and thus struck the duty of a Vala- to ignore and to pass onward.

Too long did this instant take, too much _time_ had flowed in this one instant of equal measure and duration to any other.

And Irmo cast himself from his thoughts to come with haste unto his brother's side, as the Elder King watched them with an eye of concern, the thought twinkling in that infinite expanse of sight.

Indeed was the Doomsman possessed of a great strength, ancient and unyielding, as he cast whatever shadows plagued him from his fëa, _willed_ his illness away by thought itself and rose to his feet, black robes lined with silver rising with the gust of wind Manwë conjured involuntarily.

The Lord of Mandos was come to his hall, _and it had been violated._

Possessed of a sudden fury of action, the Doomsman's brow furrowed and his form… _flickered…_ and he was gone.

The Lord of the Breath of Arda and the Fëantur had little choice but to follow in his wake, knowing not where to search ere it struck them that he must have gone to Vairë. Following the path shown to them by the innumerable tapestries of beauty beyond understanding, they came at last to her chamber, seeing the Valië seated on her throne, being gently rocked by her husband and eternal love…

… _Nay. It seemed to them now that she was the one who rocked Mandos. His head was upon her shoulder and hers upon his… yet a clenched fist told them the tale they wished to know._

Vairë had her hand buried in Mandos' hair, and it was clear that something passed between their thought as their fëar sung to each other… and it was then that Manwë felt the chill.

A sensation of cold hatred, of restrained fury struck him. He could not fathom how vast it was, having naught of darkness himself, but he could see it well- it was terrible.

He knew from whence it came, silenced and dissipated though it was.

" **Dūrdāthir māchanāz! Ardōstāz umūbārthol…"**

' _Náromoz! A tîro nîn!"_ said Vairë, in Sindarin. She reached for his other arm, which was clenched in air- the part of the throne he had curled it around had since become ash.

"Námo- whatever has struck you, you must cease. This- this is not our way. You know, perhaps more intimately than any, that Eru has bestowed upon us all an equal store of wrath- and should but one of us unleash it, the fabric of which this firmament is woven will shatter. Thus it is that we must _never_ wield it."

The Judge of the dead, at this very much imperious pronouncement from the Elder King, unclenched his fist, and made to rise slowly, yet Vairë would not relinquish his hand. He made as if to wrench it in order to rise, but Manwë made clear that he needed not by making a short bow to Vairë himself, communicating to them that they ought to remain seated.

It surprised him how heavy the thud sounded as the Doomsman took his seat, lips quivering, somewhat, but otherwise having enforced again that impossible, iron control upon his self.

' _The Dark Lord.'_ he said, utterly calmly.

' _Pray tell.'_ asked the Elder King, summoning with his winds two chairs for himself and Irmo.

Mandos looked once at Vairë, who bent her head and yet did not bring it up, as if in grief…or _… shame_? Irmo, for once, could not decipher her expression.

With an impressive calm that seemed almost _forced,_ Mandos uttered the tale, face expressionless: "A… _display…_ of chaotic might. Discord, in all the treacherous forms of Melkor's invention, yet forced to obey a single, greater tune. He had waited in the shadows- silent in my very halls…"

Manwë made a mental note to have words with Varda afterwards- the Dark Lord could not have struck had she remained. The deed must have been done when she walked forth from the halls to bring her stars to their correct places in the night. It appeared, then, that the Dark Lord was terribly familiar with every step and thought of theirs…

"A psychic scream shook all within the halls… _yet none without._ Pain in death… a concept so very terrible… it was felt by the fëar with great power. It was then that my wife's fëa rose to the… rescue of the fëar that were scattered, and then _that leech… that lord of rats and scu…"_

' _Námo.'_

"Ah…" said the Doomsman, colour returning to his cheek. "Forgive me, Vairë. In fact, I deem it best that you speak of the rest, for I have not the words… argh…"

She nodded slightly, caressing Námo's fëa. It would not be easy for her to say the rest, but she would do the tale justice.

"Irmo, my lord Manwë, I… I heard that which I have not heard since the _beginning._ A song more beautiful and terrible than any we can bring forth in this age. It was to my thought that we… _lost_ _this_ … we lost the ability to send forth music from the very fëa after the _arkhāst ayānūmuz. It was… majestic…_ and I was taken with thought of my Námo having come to me. Each song is unique, but this… it was an impersonation so utterly _perfect_ that I was fooled. Beware, my lords- it requires power beyond power to attempt such a feat- power even I have not the ability to fathom. I was caressed with your voice, Námo… _your voice…_ and so was I taken by torpor, for that was what I thought you commanded, and I obeyed."

What shock the Elder King was taken by was tremendous, show it though he did not- for even he, with all his vast might, lacked the power to… _replicate..._ the song of another Vala. Nay, that power belonged to only one, but to a certain degree.

 _It simply could not have been Melkor, and yet could not have been any other than Melkor._

Irmo's thought, meanwhile, was centred on another matter entirely.

'The thread, Vairë, the thread!' he exclaimed, and followed the current path of the golden thread of the Weaver's thought, furiously examining her latest works for any inaccuracies.

" _Sit down, Irmo. There is naught here that was not done by my hand."_ said Vairë softly, but with an air of command. Irmo stepped back, as she had told him the futility of searching for an inaccuracy.

The Elder King seemed once again in one of his great trances of deep thought.

Námo, however- he was quite the Vala of action, it seemed.

' _Naught here that you did not weave… perhaps you did weave it? You would not know a change in the path of history, as whatever was changed would occur to you as the original history.'_

Irmo walked to his elder brother, wonder in his eyes- for though Mandos himself regarded him the greater in power, he confessed to sometimes standing in awe of his brother's exceptional abilities. If the thread of fate was altered, none else would know- save him.

Long moments they waited, when an epiphany seemed to strike him, and he nearly fell backwards, to be caught by his brother.

' _Nothing that has never been can you record… yet nothing can ever have been if you did not record it. The Dark Lord must have well known this, curse him!'_

"Lord Manwë! What is Atar's thought?" he asked.

' _Atar? Nay… Atar was not in my thought, Námo._ ' said the Elder King, rising from his reverie.

Perplexing though this was, Mandos ignored it, and Manwë was thankful, for he did not much wish to reveal his thought.

"No matter. The plane of time runs smooth- ever too much so. This Dark Lord, whoever he may be, must have taken tremendous pains to ensure it so. The future… for the first time, I find it… _clouded._ A change must have occurred, then… but a drastic change in the future itself would have been… _too obvious._ I judge our foe to be possessed of far greater cunning- it is the past, then, that he has turned."

Examining the dooms of the past and the stories that came in the First Age, Mandos could see naught. Oldest though the age was, it remained freshest in his memory, and any _shattering_ or _violation_ of its tale would strike him immediately.

The Second Age was one fraught with sorrow for the Valar… for it was with Andor's fall that they forsook the guardianship of Arda. Every event ere it took place was quite clearly visible to his eyes… and all after, not.

After the downfall, all Námo could see clearly as if it were ensuing directly under his gaze was the history of Valinor, and not of Ennor. Of Middle-earth he could not See, and could only Think- for it was the dooms that his eye could discern, but by laying down his duty of guardianship, he had forsaken true _sight._

It was a simple matter to deduce that nothing could have changed in the interval between the Downfall and the Last Alliance's war, for he could see no turning in the river of time, no parallel path taken by history- and therein lay the problem.

It was to the Third Age, then, that the Dark Lord had looked. _Of course._

He knew not why, but he felt as if Middle-earth itself was taking some form of… _revenge…_ against him by denying him sight of its history. He recalled all the dooms he had seen, and found that they remained fulfilled… _but how?_

He did not notice his lord, Manwë, who had divined his thought- and the Elder King would not say that he had felt the same _guilt._ He had felt it for an age, as if Middle-earth was calling, and upon the Valar's choice to not answer, the call had ceased entirely. He knew not how it felt to be cut off, for none of the Valar could ever claim to truly understanding Arda- _but_ _perhaps_ _Melkor could._ The Lord of the Breath of Arda had sighed and cast away the thought as yet another of the unending sorrows it was his eternal duty to bear.

"The Third Age, lord Manwë, the Third Age! Of course!"

The Elder King bent his head slightly, knowing of the import of the matter. It seemed that 'the Age of the Secondborn' was not to be ignored as he had thought, and he knew well that their ignorance could be used against them.

Yet he observed now as something passed yet again between the minds of Námo and Vairë, as well as Irmo, who seemed to have the same innate understanding of the matter as did they.

In silence, Vairë strode towards the tapestries that depicted the Third Age- the history of which the inhabitants of Valinor knew and cared little, yet was perhaps the most glorious of Arda's ages for the peoples of Middle-earth.

Irmo recognised the subtle yet tremendous aura of power of the Valië, and although Manwë could not understand it as he did, he could appreciate the performance of a feat sedate and innocuous in appearance but of mightier power than any storm of might.

The thread of each tapestry was woven of thought, and as he watched, every thought came _alive._ The threads glowed golden, and every strand told its own story, as the Valië somehow heard them all without losing a single detail among the sands of time.

And there it was. The Valië's hand came softly, almost unconsciously, upon a single tapestry- The Battle of the Black Gate.

" _Where is it?"_ said Vairë suddenly, and when she opened her eyes, it was with an expression of sudden wrath.

'My love?' asked the Doomsman. He was not very given to calling her aloud by this title, but the concern clearly visible on his expression indicated otherwise.

" _Where is it?!"_ she repeated, loudly this time, before curling her hand in a fist and striking the tapestry harshly.

She did so again, furiously this time, and nearly struck it off the wall, before Mandos caught her and had her take a seat.

Vairë's face showed both fury and an odd degree of… _embarrassment._ She parted her lips as if to speak, but decided against it. Mandos sat down beside her, and yet again, there seemed to pass something unheard between the minds of Vala and Valië. Laying a calming hand upon her shoulder, the Doomsman rose swiftly. He had his lord's attention.

'Lord Manwë- I bid you, observe. This... this tapestry tells of a grand battle worthy of song, and yet hides within a little tale- a tale far greater in import to the doom." said he, laying his hand upon the large tapestry depicting the battle of the Black Gate.

He could sense faintly the thoughts of the participants, although he could not See the events as clearly as could the Weaver. And he did notice how they were… _inconclusive-_ how there was more to the tale.

' _Vīyarēz?"_ he asked softly, and Vairë, with a single word of command, summoned to view another tapestry- this one small and easily overlooked, yet detailing a great event that none of the scholars of the Third Age would ever forget.

 _A small depiction of a hobbit dangling the One Ring over the fiery lava of Orodruin._

The Valar knew of it as the defining instant of the age.

"Do you not _see?_ The tale this thread must tell is so very… _inconclusive…_ so… _ambiguous…_ that it is all simply _incorrect!"_

"What is your meaning, my sister? Do we not have to this tale its conclusion? We _know_ of the fall of the ring into Orodruin, and of the rescue of the hobbits by my lord's thoronath…"

"Hush, Irmo. There is apparently yet more to this tale." said Mandos, having understood his wife's words beyond what they could ever mean to any else.

"Come now, my beloved, bring to us the entirety of the tale."

As if the words needed not be spoken, Vairë spoke another word of command, and summoned the tapestry of the hobbits' rescue. It was then that she placed her hand on both in succession, and with an unlikely shout did proclaim her suspicion.

"Look, my lords, look! This is the very next tapestry that would follow the former, and yet there appears something… disjointed! I know not what is between them, but I shall bargain my fëa in favour of the knowledge that there indeed is an event hidden from our eyes!"

"Ah. I may not have your skill at deciphering the threads of history, but I must say, Vairë… there is yet a piece of this tale of which we know naught. Nay- say it not- I recall nothing. It is clear, therefore, that the past has been altered… but in what way?" said Mandos, turning to his lord for assistance.

"If yet the ring survived, I would know it. I would have felt the restoration of the link of power between It and Its Lord, who resides in the void… and Aulë tells me of the invulnerability of such a bond. We knew Mairon while he yet persisted in the light… and he was, no doubt, a very skilled apprentice. The power he invested into the ring was of the fëa itself- and it was Atar's will that the fëa is indestructible. If his dark will yet persisted, I would know… lest it be that my mind is clouded by a power beyond compare." said the Elder King.

"It cannot have been the ring, therefore… but if not, what else?" mused Irmo, knowing of the impossibility that any could ever hope to deny Manwë sight.

"Whatever it may be, it will elude Valinor. If this 'Dark Lord' does indeed exist and hold power, it must be to Middle-earth that he has turned… and it will be in Middle-earth that this tale meets its conclusion. Rest now, Námo… I must have words with Olórin as to what has transpired… no doubt Envinyatar must be warned. A pity that war must assail him yet again, and a testament to his unconquerable courage… but he must stand, stand for time enough so that we may strike when the opponent is revealed, and end this darkness."

The Fëanturi recognised the dismissal, and Vairë returned to her unending task. Four thoughts now hounded the vast mind of Manwë-

The first, that Eönwë needed not be told. His herald was still deeply upset about Mairon's trial, and it was too much to ask of him, for he would no doubt forsake his rest in pursuit of the matter.

The second, that he would soon need to visit his _dear brother_ in the void. He was convinced that it was only there he would proceed further to the unravelling of this mystery.

The third, that he would need to send an envoy to the hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Perhaps the ringbearer would have some insight into the matter, if any changes did indeed occur.

The fourth was a thought he dared not acknowledge- the terrible thought that occurred to him as he fell into a reverie. **There could be a traitor in their midst.**

* * *

' _People of Rhûn… of Harad… of Arda!_

 _I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, we shall prove ourselves once again able to rise above the ashes of bitter defeat, to ride out the storm of adversity, and to outlive the menace of the Reunited Kingdom- if necessary, for years… if necessary, alone._

 _That is the resolve of the Dark Tree and I its progenitor- that is the will of the Lord Tar-Mairon and Arda herself!_

 _Even though large tracts of Mordor and many old and strong fortresses have fallen into the grip of the King and all the odious apparatus of Gondorian rule, we shall not flag or flail! We shall go on to the end! We shall march to Angmar, we shall march on despite the most terrible frost and cold. We shall march with growing confidence and growing strength in the mountains, and we shall defend our honour, whatever the cost may be… We shall never surrender!_

 _And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, our lands or a large part of it were conquered and starving, then in Angmar lost, armed and guarded by ancient sorceries of old, we would carry on the struggle- until in Melkor's good time, the new believers, with all their power and might, step forth to the liberation of the old!"_

It was, without a doubt, the greatest feat in oratory Herumor had ever achieved. There was something terribly poetic about it- something truly inspiring. And mere words have achieved what no promises of power or wealth could- his ranks had swollen sevenfold. As they marched along the Red Mountains, careful to avoid the farsighted gaze of the dwarven watchtowers of Erebor, Herumor felt only pride. His old, elite warriors were all flanked by new men… _young men._ The remaining fell beast flew low near the edge of the mountains… a strategic threat to be used conservatively and hidden at all cost.

The Black Núménorean, however, hid a far deadlier secret… for in the centre of his caravan, covered by a massive grey cloth and flanked on all sides by men was Ringlach the cold-drake. The dragon missed the skies and he knew it- and so, on instinct, he reached blindly into the folds of the great canvas.

And as he knew it, his hand was met by an enormous, scaly snout, with his petted and rubbed softly. The Dragon let out a low, satisfied growl, and Herumor for a moment forgot the numerous aches that assailed him in his age. He was, at that moment, completely and utterly content.

* * *

Night blanketed Angmar, yet there was no new darkness to fall on Dûrnost, the fortress of Nightfall, throne of the Dark Lord of Arda, for it was shrouded perpetually in shadow.

Lord Mormanar lay yet in wait outside the fortress, summoning the might of the ring to lift yet more iron from the blasted ruins of Old Carn Dûm, finishing the structure of the fortress with his dark will.

As the Dark Lord walked into his throne room, black cloak swishing in the gales that were constant, he could not help but worry. It was a gamble, a tremendous gamble to summon Môrdath the void-lord to Arda.

Despite his position as the most powerful ainu upon his usurpation of the power of Morgoth, the Dark Lord was no fool- and he knew that Môrdath's defeat would not come from his hand.

The marred flame was useless against one forged from the very substance of it. For all his power, he knew that if he would stand in front of him, he would be devoured, as would all the rest- for magnitudes of power mattered not against the Master of the Night.

Mormanar would have to be informed, for he was capable of defeating this ancient shadow- it was indeed in his very nature to counter the shadows of the Void-lord, for was he not created to devour the void itself?

Yet the Dark Lord's hope of victory was placed not in Mormanar, but in Hellërúcir, the Knight of Storms. He had summoned the chaotic maia to his throne - he would be terribly late, as expected – for there was a very specific instruction to give.

For now, the Dark Lord contented himself in watching his maiar work. He had summoned numerous maiar from his hold- some were skilled in architecture and construction, and were yet finishing the halls of Dûrnost. The Black Court of his throne room would be the last to be built.

As for the others, they were… _traitors._ Weaver-traitors. He watched two of Vairë's _former maiar-_ corrupted by Melkor in ages past- work tirelessly on their own corrupoted versions of the tapestries of Arda's history. It was by the Dark Lord's will that his dark deeds were hidden from the mind of the weaver, but were recorded nonetheless… in his halls.

His shadowed gaze moved then to a particular tapestry displayed on a place of honour next to his throne- the very same missing piece his brethren had found lost.

 _Lord Mormanar death-master standing triumphant, the ring held aloft and his palm alit with black flame, the prone form of the ringbearer Frodo Baggins lying unconscious and unaware._

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **In case you did not recognise it, Herumor's speech is indeed a twisted, evil version of 'We shall fight on the beaches'. I am deeply sorry, but it had to be done.**

 **F** **ëantur-** **Master of the fëa. Singular of 'Fëanturi', a term used to refer to Mandos and Lórien.**

" **Dūrdāthir māchanāz! Ardōstāz umūbārthol…"(Valarin):** **Wretched Dark Lord! I curse him with this doom…**

' **Náromoz! A tîro nîn!"(Sindarin):** **Námo, look at me!**

 **Arkhāst ayānūmuz (Valarin):** **Music of the Ainur**

 **Andor (Quenya):** **The Land of Gift. Another name for Núménor.**

 **Vīyarēz (Valarin):** **Vairë**

 **Thoronath (Sindarin):** **Eagles**

* * *

 **Author's** **Note :** **I have but one thing to say- in the next chapter I shall conduct the 'big reveal' of the Dark Lord's identity, as well as a titanic battle between The Void-lord and His Deadliest Servants.  
**


	26. Lords of the Night

**The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age**

 **THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM**

 **Chapter 25: Lords of the Night**

* * *

' _At last is come this vale of shadow- at last is come the dominion of my… quarry. At last is come the day when my hunger is sated, and when this cursed firmament shall face my might. At last is come the time when this terrible pain of… singularity… consumes me no more! This night, I feast- for this night, Arda, you shall meet your fate against the darkness in which all life dies… and tonight, 'Dark Lord', you shall face not he whom you named "benighted one" but the true master of the drear night- and ere the end, you shall find yourself the one benighted.'_

* * *

The ragged, harsh breaths came in near-pants as the Void-lord marched on, his shadowed wrath melting away the very snow that flitted down from the heavens.

And thus did the reckoning march onwards to the Fortress of Nightfall, strength derived from sheer will, deliberation unstoppable, _thirst_ _unquenchable._

The sunken, dead eyes that Môrdath called his own flashed for a moment bright yellow from their usual tint of clouded grey, for thoughts unbidden crossed his mind.

' _It is cold- terribly, terribly cold'._

It was that which brought his march to a halt- a simple thought had done what no power on Middle-earth could. In that, it was unique- for the thought's very existence could be put to question.

The Void-lord was no ainu, for none can trace to him any singular concept relative or absolute- yet the conclusion that may be drawn from his character is that he possessed, among his abilities, the power of _thought._ His… brother… and _sisters…_ could be thought of as 'spheres', dynamic as a whole, but limited in that boundary. He, however- _he was a line._ Focused at one dimension, in one direction, and unending. And thus did he hold the same power over his thought, as when he had set his sights upon the fortress of the Dark Lord and his ears upon his mighty song, he had barred from his mind all else.

In his nature, he was unique… _for he was his mind._ His thought was action, and his fëa was thought.

He paused awhile, and held up both his hands… elegant yet gaunt were they, and he pulled, with careful deliberation, the glove off one.

The blizzards, they raged, the storms, they howled- and Môrdath felt his fingers shake and numb. And now his mind was thrown off its course, to thoughts more haphazard and mundane… how fragile this mortal fána was, yet how… _beautiful._ He loved this form as it was _substantial,_ when he was, in truth, naught but darkness.

It was this reality to which the Void-lord held any weakness… for he knew his nature, and he hated it. He hated and cursed himself for it, doomed to forever hunger. He devoured for he had to, and this act he despised- It was in his nature to see a story to its conclusion… _and he had been robbed of it._ Robbed- by his _dear sister._ He would never forgive her.

And even when he took life, his hunger never was sated. He had considered ceasing his battle with his curse, to allow himself to be devoured by his own shadows, as he considered it now…

And that was when the thought ceased, and the light left his eye. A curious medley of complete calm and utter hatred was painted upon his face as he donned again the glove with a careful precision- for his mind would sway no more. _He would never cease his fight until he had taken his revenge._

His sister may have been utterly, completely beyond his reach- he knew, in truth, that she was beyond the reach of all but Ilúvatar- so be it, then! He would revenge himself upon Ilúvatar and all his creations for the blight of conceiving his sister! If it meant a destruction of this world, then may it fall, and a thousand others in its wake!

 _It was so very beautiful, however._

He recalled the music of the ainur, as he had watched from afar. He could not understand their grand song, as it was beyond him to listen- but their creation he admired with undisguised wonder, ere all was taken from him. He gazed now at this land- shadows rose around him and about him, and he felt his power complete- _yet he did not like it._

He longed for one last glance at a green field, a pasture or a meadow ere his terror ended the existence of such delicate things.

This unbidden thought the Void-lord allowed reluctantly to persist in his mind as he resumed his inexorable march to challenge the Shadow of Doom.

' _The world is grey, the mountains old, the ancient spark is ashen-cold'._

* * *

"We… the men are wearying, my lord. How long must we march ere the turn to the Iron Mountains?"

Herumor, for the first time in hours, brought his visage to meet the eyes of another.

The ancient Núménorean, admit it though he would not, was near the end of his strength. He would not be carried- he knew men respected a lord who would walk on his own two feet alongside them- but he knew not how much further he could continue. Yet skilled was he in the art of stoking flames in the hearts of others when his own were near their end.

"Wearying? Hmm. Must I put to question, then, the will of my… disciples… to toil for the greater good? Must I be brought to ponder the frailties of mortal men, and the impossibility of any great task when put a-front those I have been sent by Lord Melkor himself to do his holy bidding?"

"M-my lord… The mind endures, but the body may weary. The fire may reign in soul but not limb. Fatigue we may allay, but not all minds may hold absolute mastery over what they may control. We are mortals, my lord, and we would give for you our lives… but many fear that chance shall not come in glorious battle. Would you wish the indignity of such a death by… marching on blighted terrain upon your men?"

Ah, this was a clever one. He most certainly knew the art of phrasing his statements- a close eye would need to be kept on him. If only his own would not blink or close as they were nowadays prone to.

"Indignity? Strength is what defines us, teaches Lord Thû- but he learned from the hand of the almighty rising lord, Melkor, that strength is what one must transcend. Those who fall of fatigue are those deserving of such a demise and naught else- the _true_ chosen of Melkor will find strength from their very will to rise, and to fight! I see naught of passion- what a pity, as all else is a lie. From your passion, you shall gain strength- and from your strength, victory. May this word reach the ear of all that would falter, and may they find for themselves their place."

And thus dismissed, the man set off to spread the word. Herumor, however, had not answered the question- and it was to his delight that he found the answer would be 'Now'.

He knew not if the farseeing eyes of Stonehelm's folk had witnessed his march- although he had taken great pains to ensure the contrary, he knew of the curious abilities of the Dwarves to simply _know_ when their lands were trespassed upon. It appeared as if the very earth spoke to them, and the mightiest among them could hear its voice. Thorin III, Herumor had found, was a formidable king- perhaps it was that he had known all along. He cared not. He would reach Angmar if it cost his life and countless others- _The Dark Tree must blossom._

He felt a bout of loneliness strike him again- and thus he reached, once again, below the great veil that covered his 'friend', who growled in appreciation.

* * *

" _ **And thus I command you, Storm-master, Lord of the Night."**_

From where he knelt, his cloak sweeping the floor, he uttered for once his words without a blemish in his speech.

"And thus I obey you, my master."

Raising his great halberd, he stood, and cloak billowing in the chill wind, marched forth to his appointed place to see his task done.

Lord Mormanar, the Death-master, stood already in grim silence, the ring adorning his hand of iron. He, however, would not be told- it was imperative that he not be told.

Not even the most perfect of plans could claim to nary a flaw, and, thoroughly tired, the Dark Lord took with deliberation his seat upon his dark throne.

In this battle, he would have no part- it would tell, however, if he would have a part in aught else afterwards. He felt, not for the first time, the throes of exhaustion- but never had the feeling enveloped him so very _completely._ He gazed, then, at his fortress- the Black Court of his throne-room was complete. The hall but missed the thrones of the 'courtiers'- in due time, they would rise. _'Shadows under his great shadow'._

Construction had begun on the highest and most greatly shadowed part of the fortress- the inner sanctum which he would soon put to dark purpose. Dûrnost would have no towers or spires, nay- it would be a labyrinth of defense and secret darkness. The bastion of unyielding might that stood forever as a speck of sheer black in the distance.

 _Death-master, Storm-master, Shadow-master. The Lords of the Night._

His existence he had based upon his plans- nay, plans within plans. Should this succeed, the Lords of the Night as an order would be complete- and he, the Lord of Darkness, would come into his own and rule. Should it fail… He wished, sometimes, to such possess an emotionless nature as Mormanar. _Perhaps it would cease his damned habit of caring so much._

The Dark Lord sighed, as he never was wont to- it would seem pathetic, would it not. _How pitiable he must look, craving sympathy, wishing solace._ _How utterly shameful. How very unlike a true Dark Lord._

Some evil, he reminded himself, was necessary- as was his. He promised Arda, his dear Arda- he promised her and all her peoples that after the war ended, he would care for them and give them life as none had. For now, however- he was the most terrible, most horrifyingly dark and powerful being to walk upon Arda. He would do well to remember it.

The Dark Lord consigned himself to watching, ever silently, the work of the weaver-traitors.

* * *

 _ **The Reckoning was come.**_

Amidst the waste dark as night, where the day had lost its light, silent, soft footfalls fell.

The avalanches of Angmar came yet again, and as before they were banished from material existence. A black hood blanketed the grim visage of Môrdath as he marched unhindered into the Nan Gwáthren, the vale of Carn Dûm.

The treacherous shadows summoned by the hand of the Dark Lord now betrayed their master and flocked to his, as Dûrnost loomed in the distance. The land itself appeared to array against him, and served only to strengthen his resolve.

Great power lay concealed within the fortress of Nightfall, and so he raised his voice to challenge-

When he found that no words would leave his throat, and no sound would escape his lips. It appeared as if a shadowy hand, ethereal and yet icy in its grip, had clamped itself upon his neck and silenced his voice.

He lowered his gaze from the fortress to behold the path ahead- and there stood the terrifying figure of Lord Mormanar.

 _The Lord of the Void, faced with the one who would consume it._

 _The Shadow of Doom arisen to face the Master of Night._

The black-cloaked, towering figure that was the very incarnation of terror inspired none of the feeling in Môrdath, who nursed instead another thought. _Oft had his aim ended in silence and inevitability- oft had he destroyed with nary a foe to challenge his might. Not this day- a challenge would belay him. An adversary would oppose him. How wonderful._

He observed how a few shadows, blacker than the rest, rose and crowned the silhouette of his foe- of how he ever remained in a sphere controlled by his own black thought and that of none else. Mormanar struck him as an eye of calm, yet not amidst the storm that was he- nay, the eye faced the storm, in opposition as direct as could be.

With a single surge of his will, the void-lord quelled Mormanar's word of silence to utter these words, as he recalled from the Dark Lord's initial verse-

' _ **Shadow of Doom, Lord of the Night, Darkness crown'd with Iron Might'.**_

* * *

' **Void-lord, unbeing, these lands thou would'st swathe- by the Dark Lord's will, thou shalt not."** uttered the dark, sinister voice in reply, the metallic resonance echoing off the mountainside.

' _So be it. By you and your master, so be it- By E_ _ä, so be it!'_ roared Môrdath harshly, and there was no deliberation to his motion this time- naught of delicate elegance. His palm was raised in a jarring sweep, and within an instant, the shadows that crowned Mormanar gathered- after which all happened at once.

The air appeared to constrict around where his once was, and tendrils of sheer _blackness_ surged forth to devour his shadow within their greater shadow. Yet Lord Mormanar Death-master was wary, and his own form had dissipated, no trace to be seen.

Môrdath then sang a song of revelation- yet that it could not be called, for it was no song. It had no words, for the meaning was contained in the dialect itself- yet there was no melody, no tune, not even one aimless and chaotic.

It was as if the wave of a vibrating instrument was one-dimensional, for no sound was heard, and yet the effects felt. His shadows searched for those treacherous, and yet with full patience he sang, rather chanted- for when the Doombringer was found, he would pounce and claw, and he wold be cast from the realm of shadows.

And ere the song ended, Môrdath felt a chill… an eerie chill, one of fear, not of cold- and at once he leapt aside, arm thrust out.

A deadly thrust of Ainunarcar, the liquid, shadowy blade, bit deep into his fingers and spilled blood upon the ice black as ebony- and yet the blood was red, crimson as would be a man's. Yet Môrdath's motion was granted success, as a wave of shadow and darkness threw itself upon Mormanar, whose form was smitten and thrown to the mountainside.

To this battle as well there would be a silent watcher, yet it was no being of shadow, and it underwent considerable torture to maintain its silence- for its fingers were flitting to and fro, and the feathered helm it wore would oft peek from the rock-face.

Môrdath obliterated the mountainside above his foe, to effect the rest falling upon him. In spite of the song of sedation that the Void-lord sang, Mormanar rose and threw himself to the ground ere the mountain smote him unto ruin.

Tendrils of Darkness closed around his form again, and now a different tactic was employed- for he sent forth his own to strike Môrdath. The Void-lord, taken aback, turned his tune to one of docility and wrested control of the treacherous manifestations of darkness, when he saw that Mormanar had dispelled his own entirely and was nigh upon him.

Although unfamiliar with avoiding a swordsman's aim, Môrdath knew danger when he saw it- _the once he did not, he had paid with a fate worse than death. 'I thank you, sister dear'_ thought he viciously, as Mormanar's strike barely cut his flesh. It was, however, enough- for even with the barest cut he felt Ainunarcar's bite. The very same chill, that dreadful chill which had naught of relation to the cold then overcame him, and in his one moment of weakness, he felt a terrible strike and fell to the obsidian floor of ice, helpless.

His cheek was rent and gashed, torn ruthlessly by Mormanar's gauntlet as he struck him. The Doombringer he now beheld as a wave of shadow, the cursed, damned Black Sword skirting the ground, coming inevitably onwards. In that moment, Môrdath for the first time felt _fear-_ for it was not a figure in black armour that he beheld- it was _death itself._ How could demise touch one who was beyond it? How could he, the unconquerable, be slain? As he beheld the shadowed mask, the silent haste and the deadly blade- and he knew his end was nigh.

" _Shadow of Doom thou mayest be- yet doom's true lord thou art not. My fate is mine own to take, Death-master!'_

It was fear that gave him strength, the threat to his existence that raised his power in defence. A grand wave of shadow struck Mormanar, who was halted in his bid as he strove to tear it apart with his own, and cheek rent, hand bleeding, Môrdath summoned the strength to stand, having saved himself.

He harried Mormanar anew with his devouring darkness, and as the Doombringer's own fearsome shadows proved no match, the dark form dissipated yet again, and now Môrdath would not look for him. _Nay. Mormanar would come, if… compelled._

The dark power of Mormanar's master that flooded the air was now taken from his grasp, rising to answer a new master, as Môrdath raised his voice to a terrible chant. He commanded the shadows of Angmar to expel his foe, he twisted the fabric of Eä- not with a furious wrath but with a subtle mastery.

The Dark Lord's own eyes beheld the spectacle- for Môrdath, in defiance of his very nature, was become mighty in songs of power. He stood as the Dark One had, singing a song of creation- only that his song was a chant with one verse and one objective, not defined by tune or timbre. The Dark Lord had created- Môrdath would destroy.

How much mightier he could have been in the realm of song had not doom turned him benighted… and yet how _inconvenient_ that would be. As he now was, he was a weapon- one that could be finely tuned and turned to his devices. And thus, the Dark Lord awaited the fulfilment of his scheme.

Mormanar would be forced unto physical form- that was inevitable- and without further course, would thunder towards Môrdath in all his dark might. He would be slowed by shadows more numerous than the hairs on a dwarf's head- ever more spirits of darkness in each wave would assail him and halt his advance.

Even the Doombringer would reach the end of his unmatched strength, and Môrdath, with a sweep, would open a facet of the void to end its would-be devourer.

The battle raged half in his realm and half in his mind, as he watched it unfold before him and yet not. He did not behold with his true eyes the moment when Mormanar's armour ceased its motion, did not see when the metal came to an utter halt as it the influence of the shadow within no longer persisted.

He saw, however, as his deadliest servant was raised to the airs, his injured and yet redoubtable foe victorious, yet staining the shadowed ice red with his dripping blood.

The Dark Lord feared little, and knew no terror, save for that which accompanied the failure of a plan- but even his mind of steel was tested when he felt a dagger of Môrdath's will against his own.

With a grim anticipation, he faced the knowledge that Môrdath, as he sought to deconstruct Mormanar's spirit, had found the link between the Dark Lord's fëa and the Doombringer's own.

In utter surety of his triumph, he shouted finally in challenge:

"Lord of the Dark! If thy greatest servant thou didst send, he did rend my flesh, he did mar my visage- but I stand victorious at last. Thy creation I commend- for truly it was more terrible a foe I faced than ever I have. Thy power is great, and yet it cannot stand 'gainst the darkness in which all life must die. Forth, now, and meet me at thy gate, for this I chance I shall give thee to suffer thine end in the dignity thou dost deserve."

His own shadows were taken from his hands as Môrdath commanded them. The most powerful being in Arda could do naught when faced with the primordial force of Darkness itself- _and yet, the Dark Lord made no answer._

Môrdath struck the Dark Lord yet again with a dagger of his mind, and was yet repelled sharply and completely, as the Dark Lord sat steeled and unyielding.

' _To the end thou shalt defy me… so be it, my lord. So be it, as thou didst wish.'_

He sang a song of draining, of taking. He would devour the Dark Lord's might through Mormanar, and he hoped beyond hope it would sate his hunger- for if it did not, Arda would follow.

A scream rent the air.

* * *

It was Môrdath's own.

The Void-lord howled in sheer pain and grief- it was a mortal's scream, and that of one subject to the most terrible torture.

A thousand bolts of terrible lightning coursed through his frail fána, burning flesh and charring bone.

He fell to his knees, hot tears unbidden falling from his eyes, crying in pain and terror as the lightning struck him yet again.

Bolts struck the ice on his side, in front of him, behind him, and some thundered as far as the mountains beyond. The same helplessness overcame him- but now born not of fear but of sheer _pain._

The lightning ceased its course through his veins for an instant, and in that instant was unveiled his hidden foe- nay, his torturer- for Hellërúcir, the Storm Knight, marched forth from the rock behind which he was hidden, glee unbound as he struck Môrdath yet again with lightning stronger and more terrible than before.

The Chaotic maia revelled in his foe's suffering- he had struck on his master's order, in the very moment at which he had ordered intervention. He had treated it a duty- but it never had struck him that it would be a duty so thoroughly _enjoyable._

It was an evil joy purely Melkorian in nature, as dark cackles of glee escaped his mouth as he yet neared. He needed not the skies, although forked bolts rained lashes upon the Void-lord as he commanded them- for the lightning spewed forth from his very fëa.

 _It was his purpose, his sole purpose, and in this knowledge his found deep satisfaction._

It was, however, not the end of the Void-lord's strength- for in his agony, Môrdath yet found a remnant of strength, which he used to speak a mighty word of silence. The lightning ceased, as did the cackling, and he grasped blindly at the air- yet his shadows found their mark, and the Storm Knight's palms were closed.

His flesh burned and his cheek yet dripping blood, he stood in blind rage, in readiness to end his foe-

And that was when he saw it. He saw the light of his own doom.

His own shadows turned on him, and those he had taken from the Dark Lord's grasp deserted him for their true master. Hellërúcir watched with equal awe as he did himself when his hands were bound behind him, when his throat seized and when his knees buckled yet again.

The very facet of the void he had himself opened unto Arda had been opened anew- and he saw, with a terrible fear, that it was closing in upon his own self.

It was then, when he thought himself finished, that an Iron hand clawed around his throat, blood dripping in fine lines from where it was gripped, and he beheld the fell witch-light in the terrible eyes of Lord Mormanar Death-master.

He saw his sister, whom he hated- he saw her spider's form devouring herself. A thought came to him then that he would not be allowed the same luxury- that he would be annihilated by the Doombringer. The vastness of the Dark Lord's might seemed to strike him only then- as well as the insignificance of his own self. To him, that was the greatest indignity.

He wished to scream, but could not. He wished escape, but was bound. And thence was subjugated the will of Môrdath the void-lord, as he was thrown harshly to the ground, his might spent, his aim crushed and his resolve utterly defeated by the Death-master and the Storm-master, the Lords of the Night. His form would have choked to death on his own blood if he was to be told, in that moment, of the irony of the Dark Lord's scheme, as to his own place in the Grand Design.

* * *

After what could count as both an eternity and as an instant too small, the blizzards rose and the gales raged, hail pouring upon the land. The Cloaks of Môrdath's captors fluttered in front of his vision, as both the black and the brilliant blue figure knelt down in reverence.

 _Ah, their master would_ now _show himself, to poison his wounds yet further, to herald his triumph._

The world bowed to the footsteps of the greatest being that walked upon it, and the land quaked- yet to a rhythm.

 _It was to his tremendous surprise that he felt his injuries healing._

The bloodied cuts were closed, and his flesh knitted itself together. Not even traces of the scars he had been given persisted. Only the terrible burns from the tortuous lightning remained- but the flesh was no longer red, and the skin of his face, which had been made to sag, appeared to turn crisp and traight yet again.

' _Master'_ he heard his foes say in unison, and when he mustered the courage to turn his head, he saw a figure of deep concentration.

He beheld a King without crown, yet more glorious in its absence. The Dark Lord stood over him, and his strength appeared to return.

A dark hand reached down to convey him to his feet- _pah._ He would not accept it.

As his brow furrowed to spite his foe, however, his strength failed him mysteriously, and he fell again to the ice. He knew then that the strength as not his own, and was granted by the Lord of the Dark- and when the hand was proffered again, he took it and raised himself to his feet.

" _If thou dost think I shall serve thee…"_ he ground out with revulsion, only to be halted.

" _Nay, I ponder it not. Thou shalt indeed serve me, as shall all. Yet thou shalt be no servant- my regard for thee stems higher than it would for a slave. Thou shalt learn at my hand, for I can teach thee, impart to thee what thou dost crave above all."_

" _None in Eä shall I answer to- none in Eä shall I call 'lord'!"_

" _Lord? Nay. Tarry not in thy defiance for it shall herald only thine end. I know thee, void-lord- for I did listen to thy tale as did none else. I know thy fate and thy suffering- I know the doom that assailed thee upon the action of thy sister, Ungoliant. I am no deceiver, and I shall not lie- for I shall teach thee to belay thy hunger and to control the tyrannous might thou dost call thine own- and time is not a foe beyond me. Serve me well, and I shall grant thee thy revenge."_

Môrdath wished to scoff, but only then did he behold upon Mormanar's finger the One Ring- and he was struck at once by awe and wonder. He had watched the tale of the Third Age unfold from his place in the Timeless Halls- and he knew well its fate. Here, however, it sat, a band of gold unadorned and a speck of beauty in the darkness- here it had been only now used to bring him to defeat.

He asked, then, unable to bring under further scrutiny this being whose servants- _servants-_ had silenced his great darkness, and yet he would not bow his head.

" _T… truly? I have fallen before, how now must I know thou shalt not do unto me what sh… she… did? I had sworn, then, that I would bow to none- how canst thou break a vow of the fëa? Th… thou shalt not!"_

" **A thousand vows far greater than thine I have seen broken with mine own eyes. If thou shalt forgo opportunity for the sake of defiance, then so be it- for at my slightest command, Mormanar shall end thee forevermore. And yet, if I do wish thine end, I shall have no need of him- silenced as thou hast been, I shall tear thy fëa apart, dismantle it such that it may ne'er reform. And if thou dost consider in this death a 'dignity'- I shall leave thee first to the devices and whims of Hellërúcir."**

Bravado would be futile- and the Dark One would offer him no dignity in a final end.

Though he never would admit it, there existed a part of Môrdath that would leap greedily at such a chance of revenge, deception or not. Seeing naught else but one end to the path he now walked, he knelt himself, bowing his head to the ice as did his now former foes.

"Thou hast, then, conquered me… my… l-lord."

" **Nay, call me not lord. Thou shalt not be a slave- to me, thou dost hold fear greater value. Thou shalt be mine apprentice, as shalt thou call me 'Master'."**

The order puzzled him thoroughly, and yet he complied- finding that he would indeed prefer this address.

'I pledge myself, my might and my service to thee, my master.'

" **Then rise, M** **ô** **rdath- Rise anew as Master of Shadow. I grant thee thy place at my side- Lord of the Night."** uttered Mandos, Dark Lord of Arda.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Nan Gwáthren-** **The Vale [in which] light [is] dimmed**

 **In case none have yet noticed, 'Shadows' in this tale are as they have been defined by Christopher Tolkien in 'Annals of Aman'- small 'manifestations' of darkness, half-formed thoughts of Iluvatar or sometimes fully-formed spirits. They hold a large influence on Arda and form a lot of Melkor's power.**

* * *

 **Author's Friend's** **Note :** **It is according to the DarkLordofDoom's wish that I am writing this note. I'm Tom, and old friend of his. If you notice anything off about the chapter, it is most likely a result of me compiling and editing it from his notes. A rather serious situation had threatened his life, yet he is recovering very nicely and is nearly well- well enough, in fact, to write this note in my place.**

 **Congratulations to Arinariel, the only one to have divined the Dark Lord's identity- you must know my friend's mind better than I, for I most certainly did NOT expect that. Although I am not supposed to give spoilers, I shall say that there lies a dark plot behind the treachery of the Doomsman, with Melkor at its heart- unfortunately, it does not seem to have ended well for him.**

 **He'll return to updating this story as soon as he is completely well, and if he doesn't mind, I'll post another chapter as well. Cheers to all the readers.**


End file.
